^r^ 


i^H 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


Vol.  XXVII 


NEW  LETTERS 


LETTERS  AND  MISCEL- 
LANIES OF  ROBERT 
LOUIS     STEVENSON 


NEW  LETTERS  S  SE 
SELECTED  AND  EDITED 
BY  SIDNEY  COLVIN  ^  St 


PUBLISHED  IN  S 
NEW  YORK  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 

SONS    a    ^    1912    J 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

IN  this  volume  are  contained  one  hundred  and  sixty-two 
letters  not  until  now  published  in  the  Thistle  Edition 
and  only  recently  given  to  the  public  in  any  form.  Of 
them  Sir  Sidney  Colvin  said,  in  the  introduction  to  a  se- 
lection from  them  for  magazine  publication  : 

**  They  date  from  all  periods  of  Stevenson's  life,  those 
written  in  the  brilliant  and  troubled  days  of  his  youth  pre- 
dominating, and  giving  a  picture,  perhaps  unique  in  its 
kind,  of  a  character  and  talent  in  the  making.  Many  of 
the  letters  now  printed  were  put  aside  twelve  years  ago 
simply  for  want  of  space.  Lapse  of  time  has  enabled  some 
to  be  given  now  that  could  not  discreetly  have  been  given 
then ;  some  are  addressed  to  correspondents  who  have  only 
lately  placed  them  at  my  disposal.  Much,  of  course,  re- 
mains and  ought  to  remain  unprinted.  Some  of  the  out- 
pourings of  the  early  time  are  too  sacred  and  intimate  for 
publicity ;  many  of  the  letters  of  his  maturer  years  are  dry 
business  letters  of  no  general  interest;  many  others  are 
mere  scraps  tossed  in  jest  to  his  familiars  and  full  of  the 
catch-words  and  code-words  current  in  their  talk,  but  of 
little  meaning  to  outsiders.  Above  all,  many  have  to  be 
omitted  because  they  deal  with  the  intimate  affairs  of  pri- 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

vate  persons.  ...  As  to  the  text,  it  will  be  faithful  to 
the  original  except  in  so  far  as  I  have  used  the  editorial 
privilege  of  omission  when  I  thought  it  desirable,  and  as  I 
have  not  felt  myself  bound  to  reproduce  slips  and  oddities, 
however  characteristic,  of  spelling." 

For  the  convenience  of  readers  In  following  Stevenson's 
correspondence  in  connection  with  the  letters  already  pub- 
lished in  the  Thistle  Edition,  this  latest  volume  has  been 
separated  according  to  the  dates  of  the  letters  into  the 
same  divisions— ** Student  Days,*'  '* Advocate  and  Au- 
thor," **The  Amateur  Emigrant,"  and  so  on — that  were 
made  in  the  earlier  books.  The  letters  **To  Sidney 
Colvin"  from  Stevenson's  Samoan  home  would  by  the 
original  arrangement  have  been  included  in  the  collection 
entitled  Vailima  Letters,  Their  position  among  those  letters 
can  easily  be  determined  by  the  chronological  sequence. 


CONTENTS 


Prefatory  Note 


PAGS 
V 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 


TRAVELS  AND  EXCURSIONS 

LETTERS:  — 

To  Thomas  Stevenson   .... 

3 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

5 

To  the  Same        ..... 

6 

To  Charles  Baxter         .... 

13 

To  the  Same 

17 

II 


STUDENT  DAYS  Continued 


ORDERED  SOUTH 


LEMERS:— 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell   ....••          23 

To  the  Same 

24 

To  the  Same 

26 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

29 

To  the  Same 

30 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  . 

31 

To  the  Same 

35 

LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell  . 

To  Charles  Baxter 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  . 

To  the  Same 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

To  the  Same 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  . 

To  the  Same 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  the  Same 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  Thomas  Stevenson   . 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

To  Thomas  Stevenson   . 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  . 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  the  Same 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  the  Same 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 


CONTENTS 

VAGB 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 96 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

97 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  . 

98 

To  the  Same 

102 

To  the  Same 

104 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

105 

To  the  Same 

108 

To  the  Same 

108 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  . 

no 

III 


ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR 


EDINBURGH— PARIS 

LETTERS:  — 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

113 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  .... 

114 

To  Sidney  Colvin           .           .           .           , 

116 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  .... 

117 

To  Thomas  Stevenson  .           .           .           . 

118 

To  Miss  Jane  Whyte  Balfour    . 

120 

IV 

THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 
MONTEREY  AND  SAN  FRANCISCO 

LETTERS:  — 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

To  the  Same 

To  the  Same 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

To  Professor  Meiklejohn 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  J.  W.  Ferrier 

ix 


125 
127 
129 
131 
132 

135 

138 
140 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


ALPINE  WINTERS 

AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 

fTERS:  — 

To  Sidney  Colvin          .          •          •          •          •         145 

To  Charles  Baxter 

146 

To  Isobel  Strong 

147 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

149 

To  the  Same 

150 

To  Charles  J.  Guthrie 

151 

To  the  Same 

151 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

152 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

154 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

155 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

157 

To  Mrs.  Gosse    . 

158 

To  Trevor  Haddon 

160 

To  the  Same 

162 

VI 


MARSEILLES  AND   HYERES 


LETTERS:  — 

To  Trevor  Haddon         .... 

165 

[From  Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  J.  A.  Symonds] 

166 

To  Sidney  Colvin           .          .           .          .          , 

.         169 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

170 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

171 

To  Mr.  Simoneau 

172 

To  Trevor  Haddon 

174 

To  Mr.  Simoneau 

176 

To  Miss  Ferrier  .... 

179 

CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  Miss  Ferrier  ......         i8o 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

182 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

183 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

184 

To  the  Same 

186 

To  the  Same 

188 

To  Trevor  Haddon 

190 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

192 

To  the  Same 

193 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

194 

VII 
LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 


rTERS:  — 

ToW.  E.Henley           .           .           .          .           .197 

To  the  Same 

198 

To  the  Same 

199 

To  Miss  Ferrier  . 

200 

To  W.  E.  Henley 

201 

To  the  Same 

203 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joseph  Pennell 

203 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

205 

To  C.  Howard  Carrington 

206 

To  Mrs.  De  Mattos 

206 

VIII 
LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH  Continued 


LETTERS:  — 

To  Charles  J.  Guthrie  . 

211 

To  Edmund  Gosse 

212 

To  F.  W.  H.  Myers       . 

212 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

213 

To  the  Same 

214 

To  Alison  Cunningham 

216 

LETTERS  OF  R.  L. 

STEVENSON 

PAGE 

To  Alison  Cunningham  .....         216 

To  the  Same 

217 

To  the  Same 

218 

To  Auguste  Rodin 

219 

To  Lady  Taylor  . 

220 

To  the  Same 

222 

To  Henry  James 

223 

To  Auguste  Rodin 

225 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

225 

IX 


THE  UNITED  STATES  AGAIN 


WINTER  IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS 

TERS : — 

To  Sir  Walter  Simpson  .           .           .           .           . 

231 

To  Charles  Fairchild      .... 

233 

To  W.  E.  Henley           .... 

234 

To  Edmund  Gosse         .           .           .           .           , 

236 

To  Sidney  Colvin           .... 

237 

To  Lady  Taylor  ..... 

238 

PACIFIC  VOYAGES 
LETTERS:  — 

[From  Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Sidney  Colvin] 

To  Sidney  Colvin    s       .  ... 

[From  Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Mrs.  Sitwell] 

[From  Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Sidney  Colvin] 

To  Lady  Taylor  . 

To  the  Same 

To  Henry  James 

To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

To  Miss  Boodle  . 


241 
251 
253 
257 
260 
261 
263 
264 
265 


CONTENTS 


XI 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA  (VAILIMA  LETTERS) 


Letters : — 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  Charles  Baxter 

To  Miss  Boodle  . 

To  the  Rev.  S.  J.  Whitmee 

To  Charles  Baxter 

To  Miss  Boodle  . 

To  the  Children  in  the  Cellar 

To  Miss  Taylor   . 

To  Charles  Baxter 

To  the  Same 

To  James  S.  Stevenson 

To  the  Same 

To  Charles  Baxter 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

To  Professor  Meiklejohn 

Appendix    . 
Index 


PAGE 
271 
276 
278 
283 
285 
287 
291 
298 
301 
302 
304 
305 
306 
308 
310 

313 

329 


I 

STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

TRAVELS  AND   EXCURSIONS 

(1868-1873) 


I 

STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

TRAVELS  AND   EXCURSIONS 

(1868-1873) 

TO  Thomas  Stevenson  '^^^ 

i€T.   17 

In  July,  1868,  R.  L.  S.  went  to  watch  the  harbour  works  at  An- 
struther  and  afterwards  those  at  Wick.  Of  his  private  moods  and  oc- 
cupations in  the  Anstruther  days  he  has  told  in  retrospect  in  the  essay 
Random  Memories  :  the  Coast  of  Fife.  Here  are  some  passages  from 
letters  written  at  the  time  to  his  parents  : 

First  Sheet :  Thursday. 
Second  Sheet :  Friday. 

'Kenzie  House  or  whatever  it  is  called, 
Anstruther  [Jufyy  1868], 
MY  DEAR  FATHER, — My  lodgings  are  very  nice,  and  I 
don't  think  there  are  any  children.  There  is  a  box  of 
mignonette  in  the  window  and  a  factory  of  dried  rose- 
leaves,  which  make  the  atmosphere  a  trifle  heavy,  but 
very  pleasant. 

When  you  come,  bring  also  my  paint-box — I  forgot  it. 
I  am  going  to  try  the  travellers  and  jennies,  and  have  made 
a  sketch  of  them  and  begun  the  drawing.  After  that  I  Ml 
do  the  staging. 

Mrs.  Brown  *'  has  suffered  herself  from  her  stommick, 
and  that  makes  her  kind  of  think  for  other  people.'*    She 

3 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1868    is  a  motherly  lot.    Her  mothering  and  thought  for  others 

^^'  ^^  displays  itself  in  advice  against  hard-boiled  eggs,  well-done 

meat,  and  late  dinners,  these  being  my  only  requests. 

Fancy — 1  am  the  only  person  in  Anstruther  who  dines  in 

the  afternoon. 

If  you  could  bring  me  some  wine  when  you  come, 
't  would  be  a  good  move:  I  fear  vin  d' Anstruther ;  and 
having  procured  myself  a  severe  attack  of  gripes  by  two 
days'  total  abstinence  on  chilly  table  beer,  I  have  been 
forced  to  purchase  Green  Ginger  (**  Somebody  or  other's 
'celebrated'"),  for  the  benefit  of  my  stomach,  like  St. 
Paul. 

There  is  little  or  nothing  doing  here  to  be  seen.  By 
heightening  the  corner  in  a  hurry  to  support  the  staging 
they  have  let  the  masons  get  ahead  of  the  divers  and  wait 
till  they  can  overtake  them.  I  wish  you  would  write  and 
put  me  up  to  the  sort  of  things  to  ask  and  find  out.  I  re- 
ceived your  registered  letter  with  the  £^ ;  it  will  last  for 
ever.  To-morrow  I  will  watch  the  masons  at  the  pier-foot 
and  see  how  long  they  take  to  work  that  Fife-ness  stone 
you  ask  about;  they  get  sixpence  an  hour;  so  that  is  the 
only  datum  required. 

It  is  awful  how  slowly  I  draw,  and  how  ill:  I  am  not 
nearly  done  with  the  travellers,  and  have  not  thought  of 
the  jennies  yet.  When  I  'm  drawing,  I  find  out  something 
1  have  not  measured,  or  having  measured,  have  not 
noted,  or,  having  noted,  cannot  find;  and  so  I  have  to 
trudge  to  the  pier  again  ere  1  can  go  farther  with  my  noble 
design. 

I  haven't  seen  fruit  since  I  left. 

Love  to  all. — Your  affectionate  son, 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 
4 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 


To  MRS.  Thomas  Stevenson 

'Kenzie  house,  Anstruther 
[later  in  July,  1868]. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER,— To-night  1  went  with  the  youngest 
M.  to  see  a  strolling  band  of  players  in  the  townhall.  A 
large  table  placed  below  the  gallery  with  a  print  curtain 
on  either  side  of  the  most  limited  dimensions  was  at  once 
the  scenery  and  the  proscenium.  The  manager  told  us 
that  his  scenes  were  sixteen  by  sixty-four,  and  so  could 
not  be  got  in.  Though  I  knew,  or  at  least  felt  sure,  that 
there  were  no  such  scenes  in  the  poor  man's  possession,  I 
could  not  laugh,  as  did  the  major  part  of  the  audience,  at 
this  shift  to  escape  criticism.  We  saw  a  wretched  farce, 
and  some  comic  songs  were  sung.  The  manager  sang  one, 
but  it  came  grimly  from  his  throat.  The  whole  receipt  of 
the  evening  was  5s.  and  3^.,  out  of  which  had  to  come 
room,  gas,  and  town  drummer.  We  left  soon ;  and  1  must 
say  came  out  as  sad  as  I  have  been  for  ever  so  long:  I 
think  that  manager  had  a  soul  above  comic  songs.  1  said 
this  to  young  M.,  who  is  a  *'  Phillistine  '*  (Matthew  Arnold's 
Philistine  you  understand),  and  he  replied,  **How  much 
happier  he  would  be  as  a  common  workingman  !  *'  I  told 
him  I  thought  he  would  be  less  happy  earning  a  comfort- 
able living  as  a  shoemaker  than  he  was  starving  as  an 
actor,  with  such  artistic  work  as  he  had  to  do.  But  the 
Phillistine  wouldn't  see  it.  You  observe  that  I  spell  Philis- 
tine time  about  with  one  and  two  Ts. 

As  we  went  home  we  heard  singing,  and  went  into  the 
porch  of  the  schoolhouse  to  listen.  A  fisherman  entered 
and  told  us  to  go  in.    It  was  a  psalmody  class.     One  of 

S 


1868 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


»87o    the  girls  had  a  glorious  voice.     We  stayed  for  half  an 


xrc,  19 


hour. 

Tmsday.—\  am  utterly  sick  of  this  grey,  grim,  sea- 
beaten  hole.  I  have  a  little  cold  in  my  head,  which  makes 
my  eyes  sore;  and  you  can't  tell  how  utterly  sick  I  am, 
and  how  anxious  to  get  back  among  trees  and  flowers  and 
something  less  meaningless  than  this  bleak  fertility. 

Papa  need  not  imagine  that  I  have  a  bad  cold  or  am 
stone-blind  from  this  description,  which  is  the  whole  truth. 

Last  night  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fortune  called  in  a  dogcart. 
Fortune's  beard  and  Mrs.  F.'s  brow  glittering  with  mist- 
drops,  to  ask  me  to  come  next  Saturday.  Conditionally, 
I  accepted.  Do  you  think  I  can  cut  it }  I  am  only  anxious 
to  go  slick  home  on  the  Saturday.  Write  by  return  of 
post  and  tell  me  what  to  do.  If  possible,  I  should  like  to 
cut  the  business  and  come  right  slick  out  to  Swanston. — I 
remain,  your  affectionate  son,  R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

TO  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

I  omit  the  letters  of  1869,  which  describe  at  great  length,  and  not 
very  interestingly,  a  summer  trip  on  board  the  lighthouse  steamer  to  the 
Orkneys,  Shetlands,  and  the  Fair  Isle.  The  following  of  1870  I  give 
(by  consent  of  the  lady  who  figures  as  a  youthful  character  in  the  nar- 
rative) both  for  the  sake  of  its  lively  social  sketches — including  that  of 
the  able  painter  and  singular  personage,  the  late  Sam  Bough, — and  be- 
cause it  is  dated  from  the  Isle  of  Earraid,  celebrated  alike  in  Kidnapped 
and  in  the  essay  Memoirs  of  an  Islet. 

Earraid,  Thursday,  August  ^th,  iSyo. 
MY  DEAR  MOTHER,  — I  have  SO  much  to  say,  that  needs 
must  I  take  a  large  sheet ;  for  the  notepaper  brings  with 
it  a  chilling  brevity  of  style.    Indeed,  I  think  pleasant 

6 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

writing  is  proportional  to  the  size  of  the  material  you  write     '870 
withal.  ^ 

From  Edinburgh  to  Greenock,  I  had  the  ex-secretary 
of  the  E.U.  Conservative  Club,  Murdoch.  At  Greenock 
I  spent  a  dismal  evening,  though  I  found  a  pretty  walk. 
Next  day  on  board  the  lonay  I  had  Maggie  Thomson  to 
Tarbet;  Craig,  a  well-read,  pleasant  medical,  to  Ardris- 
haig;  and  Professor,  Mrs.,  and  all  the  little  Fleeming 
Jenkinseses  to  Oban. 

At  Oban,  that  night,  it  was  delicious.  Mr.  Stephen- 
son's yacht  lay  in  the  bay,  and  a  splendid  band  on  board 
played  delightfully.  The  waters  of  the  bay  were  as 
smooth  as  a  mill-pond;  and,  in  the  dusk,  the  black  shad- 
ows of  the  hills  stretched  across  to  our  very  feet  and  the 
lights  were  reflected  in  long  lines.  At  intervals,  blue  lights 
were  burned  on  the  water:  and  rockets  were  sent  up. 
Sometimes  great  stars  of  clear  fire  fell  from  them,  until 
the  bay  received  and  quenched  them.  I  hired  a  boat  and 
skulled  round  the  yacht  in  the  dark.  When  I  came  in,  a 
very  pleasant  Englishman  on  the  steps  fell  into  talk  with 
me,  till  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Next  morning  I  slept  on  or  1  should  have  gone  to  Glen- 
coe.  As  it  was,  it  was  blazing  hot;  so  1  hired  a  boat, 
pulled  all  forenoon  along  the  coast  and  had  a  delicious 
bathe  on  the  beautiful  white  beach.  Coming  home,  I 
cotogaVd  my  Englishman,  lunched  alongside  of  him  and 
his  sister,  and  took  a  walk  with  him  in  the  afternoon,  dur- 
ing which  I  find  that  he  was  travelling  with  a  servant, 
kept  horses,  et  cetera.  At  dinner  he  wished  me  to  sit  be- 
side him  and  his  sister;  but  there  was  no  room.  When 
he  came  out  he  told  me  why  he  was  so  empresse  on  this 
point.     He  had  found  out  my  name,  and  that  1  was  con- 

7 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1870  nected  with  lighthouses,  and  his  sister  wished  to  know 
^^*  ^^  if  I  were  any  relative  of  the  Stevenson  in  Ballantyne's 
Lighthouse,  All  evening,  he,  his  sister,  I,  and  Mr.  Har- 
grove, of  Hargrove  and  Fowler,  sate  in  front  of  the  hotel. 
I  asked  Mr.  H.  if  he  knew  who  my  friend  was.  "Yes," 
he  said ;  *M  never  met  him  before :  but  my  partner  knows 
him.  He  is  a  man  of  old  family ;  and  the  solicitor  of  high- 
est standing  about  Sheffield.'*  At  night,  he  said,  **Now 
if  you  're  down  in  my  neighbourhood,  you  must  pay  me  a 
visit.  I  am  very  fond  of  young  men  about  me ;  and  I 
should  like  a  visit  from  you  very  much.  I  can  take  you 
through  any  factory  in  Sheffield  and  I  '11  drive  you  all  about 
the  Dookeries.^*  He  then  wrote  me  down  his  address; 
and  we  parted  huge  friends,  he  still  keeping  me  up  to  vis- 
iting him. 

Hitherto,  I  had  enjoyed  myself  amazingly;  but  to-day 
has  been  the  crown.  In  the  morning  I  met  Bough  on 
board,  with  whom  I  am  both  surprised  and  delighted.  He 
and  I  have  read  the  same  books,  and  discuss  Chaucer, 
Shakespeare,  Marlowe,  Fletcher,  Webster,  and  all  the  old 
authors.  He  can  quote  verses  by  the  page,  and  has 
really  a  very  pretty  literary  taste.  Altogether,  with  all  his 
roughness  and  buffoonery,  a  more  pleasant,  clever  fellow 
you  may  seldom  see.  I  was  very  much  surprised  with 
him ;  and  he  with  me.  **  Where  the  devil  did  you  read 
all  these  books? "  says  he;  and  in  my  heart,  I  echo  the 
question.  One  amusing  thing  I  must  say.  We  were  both 
talking  about  travelling;  and  I  said  I  was  so  fond  of  trav- 
elling alone,  from  the  people  one  met  and  grew  friendly 
with.  *  *  Ah, "  says  he,  * '  but  you  *  ve  such  a  pleasant  man- 
ner, you  know — quite  captivated  my  old  woman,  you  did 
— she  couldn't  talk  of  anything  else."    Here  was  a  com- 

8 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

pliment,  even  in  Sam  Bough's  sneering  tones,  that  rather  1870 
tickled  my  vanity ;  and  really,  my  social  successes  of  the  ^^'  ^^ 
last  few  days,  the  best  of  which  is  yet  to  come,  are 
enough  to  turn  anybody's  head.  To  continue,  after  a  lit- 
tle go  in  with  Samuel,  he  going  up  on  the  bridge,  I  looked 
about  me  to  see  who  there  was;  and  mine  eye  lighted  on 
two  girls,  one  of  whom  was  sweet  and  pretty,  talking  to 
an  old  gentleman.  ** Eh  Men/'  says  I  to  myself,  **that 
seems  the  best  investment  on  board."  So  I  sidled  up  to 
the  old  gentleman,  got  into  conversation  with  him  and  so 
with  the  damsel ;  and  thereupon,  having  used  the  patri- 
arch as  a  ladder,  I  kicked  him  down  behind  me.  Who 
should  my  damsel  prove,  but  Amy  Sinclair,  daughter  of 
Sir  Tollemache.  She  certainly  was  the  simplest,  most 
naive  specimen  of  girlhood  ever  I  saw.  By  getting  brandy 
and  biscuit  and  generally  coaching  up  her  cousin,  who  was 
sick,  I  ingratiated  myself;  and  so  kept  her  the  whole  way 
to  lona,  taking  her  into  the  cave  at  Staff  a  and  generally 
making  myself  as  gallant  as  possible.  I  was  never  so 
much  pleased  with  anything  in  my  life,  as  her  amusing 
absence  of  mauvaise  honte:  she  was  so  sorry  I  wasn't  go- 
ing on  to  Oban  again :  didn't  know  how  she  could  have 
enjoyed  herself  if  I  hadn't  been  there;  and  was  so  sorry 
we  hadn't  met  on  the  Crinan.  When  we  came  back  from 
Staffa,  she  and  her  aunt  went  down  to  have  lunch ;  and 
a  minute  after  up  comes  Miss  Amy  ta  ask  me  if  I  wouldn't 
think  better  of  it,  and  take  some  lunch  with  them.  I 
couldn't  resist  that,  of  course,  so  down  I  went;  and  there 
she  displayed  the  full  extent  of  her  innocence.  I  must  be 
sure  to  come  to  Thurso  Castle  the  next  time  I  was  in 
Caithness,  and  Upper  Norwood  (whence  she  would  take 
me  all  over  the  Crystal  Palace)  when  I  was  near  London ; 

9 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1870    and  (most  complete  of  all)  she  offered  to  call  on  us  in 

*  ^^  Edinburgh !     Wasn't  it  delicious  ?  —  she  is  a  girl  of  sixteen 

or  seventeen,  too,  and  the  latter  I  think.    I  never  yet  saw 

a  girl  so  innocent  and  fresh,  so  perfectly  modest  without 

the  least  trace  of  prudery. 

Coming  off  Staffa,  Sam  Bough,  who  had  been  in  huge 
force  the  whole  time,  drawing  in  Miss  Amy's  sketch-book 
and  making  himself  agreeable  or  otherwise  to  everybody, 
pointed  me  out  to  a  parson  and  said,  "That  *s  him."  This 
was  Alexander  Ross  and  his  wife. 

The  last  stage  of  the  steamer  now  approached.  Miss 
Amy  and  I  lamenting  pathetically  that  lona  was  so  near. 
"People  meet  in  this  way,"  quoth  she,  "and  then  lose 
sight  of  one  another  so  soon."  We  all  landed  together, 
Bough  and  I  and  the  Rosses  with  our  baggage ;  and  went 
together  over  the  ruins.  I  was  here  left  with  the  cousin 
and  the  aunt,  during  which  I  learned  that  said  cousin 
sees  me  every  Sunday  in  St.  Stephen's.  Oho !  thought 
1,  at  the  "every."  The  aunt  was  very  anxious  to  know 
who  that  strange,  wild  man  was  (didn't  1  wish  Samuel  in 
Tophet ! ) .  Of  course,  in  reply,  I  drew  it  strong  about 
eccentric  genius  and  my  never  having  known  him  be- 
fore, and  a  good  deal  that  was  perhaps  "strained  to  the 
extremest  limit  of  the  fact." 

The  steamer  left,  and  Miss  Amy  and  her  cousin  waved 
their  handkerchiefs,  until  my  arm  in  answering  them  was 
nearly  broken.  I  believe  women's  arms  must  be  better 
made  for  this  exercise:  mine  ache  still;  and  I  regret- 
ted at  the  time  that  the  handkerchief  had  seen  service. 
Altogether,  however,  1  was  left  in  a  pleasant  frame  of 
mind. 

Being  thus  left  alone,  Bough,  1,  the  Rosses,  Professor 

10 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

Blackie,  and  an  Englishman  called  M ,  these  people     1870 

were  going  to  remain  the  night,  except  the  Professor,  who  ^^'  ^^ 
is  resident  there  at  present.  They  were  going  to  dine  en 
compagnie  and  wished  us  to  join  the  party ;  but  we  had  al- 
ready committed  ourselves  by  mistake  to  the  wrong  hotel, 
and  besides,  we  wished  to  be  off  as  soon  as  wind  and  time 
were  against  us  to  Earraid.  We  went  up;  Bough  selected 
a  place  for  sketching  and  blocked  in  the  sketch  for  Mrs. 
R. ;  and  we  all  talked  together.  Bough  told  us  his  family 
history  and  a  lot  of  strange  things  about  old  Cumberland 
life;  among  others,  how  he  had  known  "John  Peel*'  of 
pleasant  memory  in  song,  and  of  how  that  worthy  hunted. 
At  five,  down  we  go  to  the  Argyll  Hotel,  and  wait  dinner. 
Broth—**  nice  broth'* — fresh  herrings,  and  fowl  had  been 
promised.  At  5.50,  I  get  the  shovel  and  tongs  and  drum 
them  at  the  stair-head  till  a  response  comes  from  below  that 
the  nice  broth  is  at  hand.  I  boast  of  my  engineering,  and 
Bough  compares  me  to  the  Abbott  of  Arbroath  who  origi- 
nated the  Inchcape  Bell.  At  last,  in  comes  the  tureen  and 
the  hand-maid  lifts  the  cover.  *  *  Rice  soup ! '  *  1  yell ;  *  *  O 
no !  none  0*  that  for  me !  *  *—  *  *  Yes, ' '  says  Bough  savagely ; 
'*  but  Miss  Amy  didn't  take  me  downstairs  to  eat  salmon." 
Accordingly  he  is  helped.  How  his  face  fell.  **  I  imagine 
myself  in  the  accident  ward  of  the  Infirmary,"  quoth  he. 
It  was,  purely  and  simply,  rice  and  water.  After  this,  we 
have  another  weary  pause,  and  then  herrings  in  a  state  of 
mash  and  potatoes  like  iron.  **Send  the  potatoes  out  to 
Prussia  for  grape-shot,"  was  the  suggestion.  I  dined  off 
broken  herrings  and  dry  bread.  At  last  **the  supreme 
moment  comes,"  and  the  fowl  in  a  lordly  dish  is  carried 
in.  On  the  cover  being  raised,  there  is  something  so  for- 
lorn and  miserable  about  the  aspect  of  the  animal  that  we 

II 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1870  both  roar  with  laughter.  Then  Bough,  taking  up  knife 
^^'  ^^  and  fork,  turns  the  **swarry"  over  and  over,  shaking 
doubtfully  his  head.  **  There  's  an  aspect  of  quiet  resist- 
ance about  the  beggar,"  says  he,  "that  looks  bad.*' 
However,  to  work  he  falls  until  the  sweat  stands  on  his 
brow  and  a  dismembered  leg  falls,  dull  and  leaden-like,  on 
to  my  dish.  To  eat  it  was  simply  impossible.  I  did  not 
know  before  that  flesh  could  be  so  tough.  **The  strong- 
est jaws  in  England,*'  says  Bough  piteously,  harpooning 
his  dry  morsel,  '*  couldn't  eat  this  leg  in  less  than  twelve 
hours."  Nothing  for  it  now,  but  to  order  boat  and  bill. 
**That  fowl,"  says  Bough  to  the  landlady,  **is  of  a  breed 
I  know.  I  knew  the  cut  of  its  jib  whenever  it  was  put 
down.  That  was  the  grandmother  of  the  cock  that 
frightened  Peter."  —  ** I  thought  it  was  a  historical  ani- 
mal," says  I.  **What  a  shame  to  kill  it.  It's  as  bad 
as  eating  Whittington's  cat  or  the  dog  of  Montargis."  — 
*'Na — na,  it's  no  so  old,"  says  the  landlady,  **but 
it  eats  hard."  —  '*Eats!"  I  cry,  "where  do  you  find 
that?  Very  little  of  that  verb  with  us."  So  with  more 
raillery,  we  pay  six  shillings  for  our  festival  and  run  over 
to  Earraid,  shaking  the  dust  of  the  Argyll  Hotel  from  off 
our  feet. 

I  can  write  no  more  just  now,  and  I  hope  you  will  be 
able  to  decipher  so  much ;  for  it  contains  matter.  Really, 
the  whole  of  yesterday's  work  would  do  in  a  novel  with- 
out one  little  bit  of  embellishment;  and,  indeed,  few 
novels  are  so  amusing.     Bough,  Miss  Amy,  Mrs.  Ross, 

Blackie,  M ,  the  parson  — all  these  were  such  distinct 

characters,  the  incidents  were  so  entertaining,  and  the 
scenery  so  fine,  that  the  whole  would  have  made  a  novel- 
ist's fortune. 

12 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 
MY  DEAR  FATHER,— No  landing  to-day,  as  the  sea  runs     1872 


high  on  the  rock.  They  are  at  the  second  course  of  the 
first  story  on  the  rock.  I  have  as  yet  had  no  time  here ; 
so  this  is  a  and  w  of  my  business  news. — Your  affection- 
ate son,  R.  L.  Stevenson. 


To  Charles  Baxter 

On  the  way  home  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson  from  Germany.  The 
L.  J,  R.  herein  mentioned  was  a  short-lived  Essay  Club  of  only  six  mem- 
bers ;  its  meetings  were  held  in  a  public-house  in  Advocate's  Close,  and 
the  exact  meaning  of  its  initials  has  never  to  this  day  been  divulged  to 
outsiders  (see  the  Life  of  R.  L.  S.  by  Graham  Balfour,  p.  90,  foot  note). 

BOULOGNE  SUR  MER, 
Wednesday,  ^d  or  4th  September,  18^2. 

Blame  me  not  that  this  epistle 
Is  the  first  you  have  from  me. 
Idleness  has  held  me  fettered. 
But  at  last  the  times  are  bettered 
And  once  more  I  wet  my  whistle 
Here,  in  France  beside  the  sea. 

All  the  green  and  idle  weather 
I  have  had  in  sun  and  shower 
Such  an  easy  warm  subsistence, 
Such  an  indolent  existence 
I  should  find  it  hard  to  sever 
Day  from  day  and  hour  from  hour. 

Many  a  tract-provided  ranter 
May  upbraid  me,  dark  and  sour, 
13 


iCT.   21 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

i87«  Many  a  bland  Utilitarian 

^^'  ^'  Or  excited  Millenarian, 

—  **Pereunt  et  imputantur 

You  must  speak  to  every  hour." 

But  (the  very  term  *s  deceptive) 
You  at  least,  my  friend,  will  see. 
That  in  sunny  grassy  meadows 
Trailed  across  by  moving  shadows 
To  be  actively  receptive 
Is  as  much  as  man  can  be. 

He  that  all  the  winter  grapples 
Difficulties,  thrust  and  ward — 
Needs  to  cheer  him  thro'  his  duty 
Memories  of  sun  and  beauty 
Orchards  with  the  russet  apples 
Lying  scattered  on  the  sward. 

Many  such  I  keep  in  prison. 

Keep  them  here  at  heart  unseen, 
Till  my  muse  again  rehearses 
Long  years  hence,  and  in  my  verses 
You  shall  meet  them  rearisen 
Ever  comely,  ever  green. 

You  know  how  they  never  perish, 
How,  in  time  of  later  art. 
Memories  consecrate  and  sweeten 
These  defaced  and  tempest-beaten 
Flowers  of  former  years  we  cherish. 
Half  a  life,  against  our  heart 

Most,  those  love-fruits  withered  greenly, 
Those  frail,  sickly  amourettes, 
14 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

How  they  brighten  with  the  distance  1872 

Take  new  strength  and  new  existence  ^^'  ^^ 

Till  we  see  them  sitting  queenly- 
Crowned  and  courted  by  regrets ! 

All  that  loveliest  and  best  is, 
Aureole-fashion  round  their  head, 
They  that  looked  in  life  but  plainly. 
How  they  stir  our  spirits  vainly 
When  they  come  to  us  Alcestis- 
like  returning  from  the  dead ! 

Not  the  old  love  but  another, 
Bright  she  comes  at  Memory's  call 
Our  forgotten  vows  reviving 
To  a  newer,  livelier  living. 
As  the  dead  child  to  the  mother 
Seems  the  fairest  child  of  all. 

Thus  our  Goethe,  sacred  master. 
Travelling  backward  thro'  his  youth, 
Surely  wandered  wrong  in  trying 
To  renew  the  old,  undying 
Loves  that  cling  in  memory  faster 
Than  they  ever  lived  in  truth. 

So ;  en  voila  assez  de  mauvais  vers.  Let  us  finish  with 
a  word  or  two  in  honest  prose,  tho'  indeed  1  shall  so  soon 
be  back  again  and,  if  you  be  in  town  as  I  hope,  so  soon 
get  linked  again  down  the  Lothian  road  by  a  cigar  or  two 
and  a  liquor,  that  it  is  perhaps  scarce  worth  the  postage 
to  send  my  letter  on  before  me.  I  have  just  been  long 
enough  away  to  be  satisfied  and  even  anxious  to  get  home 

15 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1872  again  and  talk  the  matter  over  with  my  friends.  I  shall 
*^*  ^^  have  plenty  to  tell  you ;  and  principally  plenty  that  I  do 
not  care  to  write ;  and  1  daresay,  you,  too,  will  have  a  lot 
of  gossip.  What  about  Ferrier  ?  Is  the  L.J.R.  think  you 
to  go  naked  and  unashamed  this  winter  ?  He  with  his 
charming  idiosyncrasy  was  in  my  eyes  the  vine-leaf  that 
preserved  our  self-respect.  All  the  rest  of  us  are  such 
shadows,  compared  to  his  full-flavoured  personality;  but 
I  must  not  spoil  my  own  debut.  I  am  trenching  upon  one 
of  the  essayettes  which  I  propose  to  introduce,  as  a  nov- 
elty, this  year  before  that  august  assembly.  For  we  must 
not  let  it  die.  It  is  a  sickly  baby,  but  what  with  nursing, 
and  pap,  and  the  like,  I  do  not  see  why  it  should  not 
have  a  stout  manhood  after  all,  and  perhaps  a  green  old 
age.  Eh !  when  we  are  old  (if  we  ever  should  be)  that 
too  will  be  one  of  those  cherished  memories  I  have  been 
so  rhapsodising  over.  We  must  consecrate  our  room. 
We  must  make  it  a  museum  of  bright  recollections ;  so 
that  we  may  go  back  there  white-headed  and  say  *' Vixi.** 
After  all,  new  countries,  sun,  music,  and  all  the  rest  can 
never  take  down  our  gusty,  rainy,  smoky,  grim  old  city 
out  of  the  first  place  that  it  has  been  making  for  itself  in 
the  bottom  of  my  soul,  by  all  pleasant  and  hard  things 
that  have  befallen  me  for  these  past  twenty  years  or  so. 
My  heart  is  buried  there  —  say,  in  Advocate's  Close ! 

Simpson  and  I  got  on  very  well  together,  and  made  a 
very  suitable  pair.  I  like  him  much  better  than  I  did 
when  I  started  which  was  almost  more  than  1  hoped  for. 

If  you  should  chance  to  see  Bob,  give  him  my  news  or 
if  you  have  the  letter  about  you,  let  him  see  it. 
Ever  your  Affct  friend, 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 
16 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 


To  Charles  Baxter 

Through  the  jesting  tenor  of  this  letter  is  to  be  discerned  a  vein  of 
more  than  half-serious  thinking  very  characteristic  of  R.  L.  S.  alike  as 
youth  and  man. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh,  October,  1872, 
MY  DEAR  BAXTER,  —  1  am  gum-boiled  and  face  swollen 
to  an  unprecedented  degree.  It  is  very  depressing  to  suf- 
fer from  gibber  that  cannot  be  brought  to  a  head.  I  can- 
not speak  it,  because  my  face  is  so  swollen  and  stiff  that 
enunciation  must  be  deliberate — a  thing  your  true  gibber er 
cannot  hold  up  his  head  under ;  and  writ  gibber  is  some- 
how not  gibber  at  all,  it  does  not  come  forth,  does  not  flow, 
with  that  fine  irrational  freedom  that  it  loves  in  speech  — 
it  does  not  afford  relief  to  the  packed  bosom. 

Hence  I  am  suffering  from  suppressed  gibber — an  uneasy 
complaint ;  and  like  all  cases  of  suppressed  humours,  this 
hath  a  nasty  tendency  to  the  brain.  Therefore  (the  more 
confused  I  get,  the  more  I  lean  on  Thus's  and  Hences  and 
Therefores)  you  must  not  be  down  upon  me,  most  noble 
Festus,  altho'  this  letter  should  smack  of  some  infirmity 
of  judgment.  I  speak  the  words  of  soberness  and  truth; 
and  would  you  were  not  almost  but  altogether  as  I  am, 
except  this  swelling.  Lord,  Lord,  if  we  could  change  per- 
sonalities how  we  should  hate  it.  How  1  should  rebel  at 
the  office,  repugn  under  the  Ulster  coat,  and  repudiate 
your  monkish  humours  thus  unjustly  and  suddenly  thrust 
upon  poor,  infidel  me!  And  as  for  you — why,  my  dear 
Charles,  '*a  mouse  that  hath  its  lodging  in  a  cat's  ear" 
would  not  be  so  uneasy  as  you  in  your  new  conditions. 
1  do  not  see  how  your  temperament  would  come  thro'  the 

17 


1872 
JET,  ai 


^T.  ai 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1872  feverish  longings  to  do  things  that  cannot  then  (or  perhaps 
ever)  be  accomplished,  the  feverish  unrests  and  damnable 
indecisions,  that  it  takes  all  my  easy-going  spirits  to  come 
through.  A  vane  can  live  out  anything  in  the  shape  of  a 
wind ;  and  that  is  how  I  can  be,  and  am,  a  more  serious 
person  than  you.  Just  as  the  light  French  seemed  very 
serious  to  Sterne,  light  L.  Stevenson  can  afford  to  bob 
about  over  the  top  of  any  deep  sea  of  prospect  or  retro- 
spect, where  ironclad  C.  Baxter  would  incontinently  go 
down  with  all  hands.  A  fool  is  generally  the  wisest 
person  out.  The  wise  man  must  shut  his  eyes  to  all  the 
perils  and  horrors  that  lie  round  him;  but  the  cap  and 
bells  can  go  bobbing  along  the  most  slippery  ledges  and 
the  bauble  will  not  stir  up  sleeping  lions.  Hurray!  for 
motley,  for  a  good  sound  insouciance,  for  a  healthy  phil- 
osophic carelessness ! 

My  dear  Baxter,  a  word  in  your  ear — **  DON'T  YOU 
WISH  YOU  WERE  A  FOOL  ?  '*  How  easy  the  world  would 
go  on  with  you — literally  on  castors.  The  only  reason  a 
wise  man  can  assign  for  getting  drunk  is  that  he  wishes 
to  enjoy  for  a  while  the  blessed  immunities  and  sunshiny 
weather  of  the  land  of  fooldom.  But  a  fool,  who  dwells 
ever  there,  has  no  excuse  at  all.  That  is  a  happy  land,  if 
you  like — and  not  so  far  away  either.  Take  a  fool's  ad- 
vice and  let  us  strive  without  ceasing  to  get  into  it.  Hark 
in  your  ear  again:  **THEY  ALLOW  PEOPLE  TO  REASON 
IN  THAT  LAND."  I  wish  I  could  take  you  by  the  hand  and 
lead  you  away  into  its  pleasant  boundaries.  There  is  no 
custom-house  on  the  frontier,  and  you  may  take  in  what 
books  you  will.  There  are  no  manners  and  customs; 
but  men  and  women  grow  up,  like  trees  in  a  still,  well- 
walled  garden,  **at  their  own  sweet  will."    There  is  no 

18 


yET.   21 


STUDENT  DAYS  AT  EDINBURGH 

prescribed  or  customary  folly  — no  motley,  cap,  or  bauble :  ij^ya 
out  of  the  well  of  each  one's  own  innate  absurdity  he  is 
allowed  and  encouraged  freely  to  draw  and  to  communi- 
cate; and  it  is  a  strange  thing  how  this  natural  fooling 
comes  so  nigh  to  one's  better  thoughts  of  wisdom ;  and 
stranger  still,  that  all  this  discord  of  people  speaking  in 
their  own  natural  moods  and  keys,  masses  itself  into  a  far 
more  perfect  harmony  than  all  the  dismal,  official  unison 
in  which  they  sing  in  other  countries.  Heart-singing  seems 
best  all  the  world  over. 

I  who  live  in  England  must  wear  the  hackneyed  sym- 
bols of  the  profession,  to  show  that  I  have  (at  least)  con- 
sular immunities,  coming  as  I  do  out  of  another  land,  where 
they  are  not  so  wise  as  they  are  here,  but  fancy  that  God 
likes  what  he  makes  and  is  not  best  pleased  with  us  when 
we  deface  and  dissemble  all  that  he  has  given  us  and  put 

about  us  to  one  common  standard  of Highty-Tighty !  — 

when  was  a  jester  obliged  to  finish  his  sentence  ?  I  cut 
so  strong  a  pirouette  that  all  my  bells  jingle,  and  come 
down  in  an  attitude,  with  one  hand  upon  my  hip.  The 
evening's  entertainment  is  over,  — **and  if  our  kyind 
friends " 

Hurrah !  I  feel  relieved.  I  have  put  out  my  gibber,  and 
if  you  have  read  thus  far,  you  will  have  taken  it  in.  I 
wonder  if  you  will  ever  come  this  length.  I  shall  try  a 
trap  for  you,  and  insult  you  here,  on  this  last  page.  **0 
Baxter  what  a  damned  humbug  you  are!"  There, — 
shall  this  insult  bloom  and  die  unseen,  or  will  you  come 
toward  me,  when  next  we  meet,  with  a  face  deformed 
with  anger  and  demand  speedy  and  bloody  satisfaction. 
Nous  verrons,  which  is  French. 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 

»9 


II 

STUDENT  DAYS 

Continued 
ORDERED    SOUTH 
(September,  1873-JuLY,  1875) 


>ET.    22 


II 

STUDENT  DAYS 

Continued 

ORDERED  SOUTH 

(September,  1873-JuLY,  1875) 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell  ,8^3 

After  leaving  Cockfield  Stevenson  spent  a  few  days  in  London  and  a 
few  with  me  in  a  cottage  1  then  had  at  Norwood.  This  and  the  follow- 
ing letters  were  written  in  the  next  days  after  his  return  home,  ' '  Bob  " 
in  the  last  paragraph  is  Robert  Alan  Mowbray  Stevenson,  a  brilliant 
elder  cousin  to  whom  Louis  had  been  from  boyhood  devotedly  attached: 
afterwards  known  as  the  brilliant  painter-critic  and  author  of  Velasquez, 
etc. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh, 

Monday,  September  ist,  i8y^. 
1  HAVE  arrived,  as  you  see,  without  accident;  but  I 
never  had  a  more  wretched  journey  in  my  life.  I  could 
not  settle  to  read  anything ;  I  bought  Darwin's  last  book 
in  despair,  for  1  knew  I  could  generally  read  Darwin,  but 
it  was  a  failure.  However,  the  book  served  me  in  good 
stead ;  for  when  a  couple  of  children  got  in  at  Newcastle, 
I  struck  up  a  great  friendship  with  them  on  the  strength 
of  the  illustrations.  These  two  children  (a  girl  of  nine  and 
a  boy  of  six)  had  never  before  travelled  in  a  railway,  so 
that  everything  was  a  glory  to  them,  and  they  were  never 

23 


i€T.    22 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873  tired  of  watching  the  telegraph  posts  and  trees  and  hedges 
go  racing  past  us  to  the  tail  of  the  train ;  and  the  girl  I  found 
quite  entered  into  the  most  daring  personifications  that  I 
could  make.  A  little  way  on,  about  Alnmouth,  they  had 
their  first  sight  of  the  sea;  and  it  was  wonderful  how  loath 
they  were  to  believe  that  what  they  saw  was  water ;  in- 
deed it  was  very  still  and  grey  and  solid-looking  under  a 
sky  to  match.  It  was  worth  the  fare,  yet  a  little  farther 
on,  to  see  the  delight  of  the  girl  when  she  passed  into 
**  another  country,"  with  the  black  Tweed  under  our  feet, 
crossed  by  the  lamps  of  the  passenger  bridge.  1  remember 
the  first  time  I  had  gone  into  **  another  country,*'  over  the 
same  river  from  the  other  side. 

Bob  was  not  at  the  station  when  I  arrived  ;  but  a  friend 
of  his  brought  me  a  letter ;  and  he  is  to  be  in  the  first 
thing  to-morrow.  Do  you  know,  I  think  yesterday  and 
the  day  before  were  the  two  happiest  days  of  my  life  ?  I 
would  not  have  missed  last  month  for  eternity.  —  Ever 
yours,  R.  L.  S. 


To  Mrs.   SlTWELL 

[Edinburgh],  Monday,  22nd  September,  i8y^. 
I  HAVE  just  had  another  disagreeable  to-night.  It  is 
difficult  indeed  to  steer  steady  among  the  breakers :  I  am 
always  touching  ground  ;  generally  it  is  my  own  blame, 
for  I  cannot  help  getting  friendly  with  my  father  (whom 
I  do  love),  and  so  speaking  foolishly  with  my  mouth.  I 
have  yet  to  learn  in  ordinary  conversation  that  reserve 
and  silence  that  I  must  try  to  unlearn  in  the  matter  of  the 
feelings. 

24 


STUDENT  DAYS 

The  news  that  Roads  would  do  reached  me  in  good  sea-  1373 
son ;  I  had  begun  utterly  to  despair  of  doing  anything.  Cer-  ^^'  ^* 
tainly  I  do  not  think  I  should  be  in  a  hurry  to  commit 
myself  about  the  Covenanters ;  the  whole  subject  turns 
round  about  me  and  so  branches  out  to  this  side  and  that, 
that  I  grow  bewildered  ;  and  one  cannot  write  discreetly 
about  any  one  little  corner  of  an  historical  period,  until 
one  has  an  organic  view  of  the  whole.  I  have,  however 
— given  life  and  health — great  hope  of  my  Covenanters  ; 
indeed,  there  is  a  lot  of  precious  dust  to  be  beaten  out  of 
that  stack  even  by  a  very  infirm  hand. 

Mmh  later.  —  I  can  scarcely  see  to  write  just  now ;  so 
please  excuse.  We  have  had  an  awful  scene.  All  that 
my  father  had  to  say  has  been  put  forth — not  that  it  was 
anything  new;  only  it  is  the  devil  to  hear.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  —  the  world  goes  hopelessly  round  about  me; 
there  is  no  more  possibility  of  doing,  living,  being  any- 
thing but  a  beasty  and  there's  the  end  of  it. 

It  is  eleven,  I  think,  for  a  clock  struck.  O  Lord,  there 
has  been  a  deal  of  time  through  our  hands  since  I  went 
down  to  supper !  All  this  has  come  from  my  own  folly; 
I  somehow  could  not  think  the  gulf  so  impassable,  and  I 
read  him  some  notes  on  the  Duke  of  Argyll* — I  thought  he 
would  agree  so  far,  and  that  we  might  have  some  rational 
discussion  on  the  rest.  And  now — after  some  hours — he 
has  told  me  that  he  is  a  weak  man,  and  that  I  am  driving 
him  too  far,  and  that  I  know  not  what  I  am  doing.  O 
dear  God,  this  is  bad  work! 

I  have  lit  a  pipe  and  feel  calmer.     I  say,  my  dear  friend, 

I  am  killing  my  father— he  told  me  to-night  (by  the  way) 

that  1  alienated  utterly  my  mother— and  this  is  the  result 

» /.  e.  on  his  book,  The  Reign  of  Lam, 

25 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

i«73    of  my  attempt  to  start  fair  and  fresh  and  to  do  my  best 
'*'^*  "  for  all  of  them. 

I  must  wait  till  to-morrow  ere  I  finish.  I  am  to-night 
too  excited. 

Tuesday.  —  The  sun  is  shining  to-day,  which  is  a  great 
matter,  and  altogether  the  gale  having  blown  off  again,  I 
live  in  a  precarious  lull.  On  the  whole  I  am  not  displeased 
with  last  night;  I  kept  my  eyes  open  through  it  all,  and  I 
think,  not  only  avoided  saying  anything  that  could  make 
matters  worse  in  the  future,  but  said  something  that  may 
do  good.  But  a  little  better  or  a  little  worse  is  a  trifle.  I 
lay  in  bed  this  morning  awake,  for  I  was  tired  arid  cold  and 
in  no  special  hurry  to  rise,  and  heard  my  father  go  out  for 
the  papers;  and  then  I  lay  and  wished — O,  if  he  could  only 
whistle  when  he  comes  in  again !  But  of  course  he  did 
not.     I  have  stopped  that  pipe. 

Now,  you  see,  I  have  written  to  you  this  time  and  sent 
it  off,  for  both  of  which  God  forgive  me. —  Ever  your  faith- 
ful friend,  R.  L.  S. 

My  father  and  I  together  can  put  about  a  year  through 
in  half  an  hour.  Look  here,  you  mustn't  take  this  too 
much  to  heart.  I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  few  hours.  It 's 
impossible  to  depress  me.  And  of  course,  when  you  can't 
do  anything,  there  's  no  need  of  being  depressed.  It 's  all 
waste  tissue.  L. 

To  Mrs.  SlTWELL 

[Edinburgh],  Wednesday,  September  24th,  187^. 
I  HAVE  found  another  **  flowering  isle."    All  this  beau- 
tiful, quiet,  sunlit  day,  1  have  been  out  in  the  country ; 
down  by  the  sea  on  my  favourite  coast  between  Granton 

26 


JET.   22 


STUDENT  DAYS 

and  Queensferry.  There  was  a  delicate,  delicious  haze  1873 
over  the  firth  and  sands  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  was 
the  shadow  of  the  woods  all  riven  with  great  golden  rifts 
of  sunshine.  A  little  faint  talk  of  waves  upon  the  beach  ; 
the  wild  strange  crying  of  seagulls  over  the  sea ;  and  the 
hoarse  woodpigeons  and  shrill,  sweet  robins  full  of  their 
autumn  love-making  among  the  trees  made  up  a  delectable 
concerto  of  peaceful  noises.  1  spent  the  whole  afternoon 
among  these  sights  and  sounds  with  Simpson.  And  we 
came  home  from  Queensferry  on  the  outside  of  the  coach 
and  four,  along  a  beautiful  way  full  of  ups  and  downs 
among  woody,  uneven  country,  laid  out  (fifty  years  ago, 
I  suppose)  by  my  grandfather,  on  the  notion  of  Hogarth's 
line  of  beauty.    You  see  my  taste  for  roads  is  hereditary. 

Friday, — 1  was  wakened  this  morning  by  a  long  flourish 
of  bugles  and  a  roll  upon  the  drums — the  r&vHlle  at  the 
Castle.  I  went  to  the  window;  it  was  a  grey,  quiet 
dawn,  a  few  people  passed  already  up  the  street  between 
the  gardens,  already  1  heard  the  noise  of  an  early  cab 
somewhere  in  the  distance,  most  of  the  lamps  had  been 
extinguished  but  not  all,  and  there  were  two  or  three  lit 
windows  in  the  opposite  facade  that  showed  where  sick 
people  and  watchers  had  been  awake  all  night  and  knew 
not  yet  of  the  new,  cool  day.  This  appealed  to  me  with 
a  special  sadness :  how  often  in  the  old  times  my  nurse 
and  I  had  looked  across  at  these,  and  sympathised. 

I  wish  you  would  read  Michelet's  Louis  Quatorze  et  la 
R&vocation  de  Vhiit  de  Nantes.  I  read  it  out  in  the  garden, 
and  the  autumnal  trees  and  weather,  and  my  own  autumnal 
humour,  and  the  pitiable  prolonged  tragedies  of  Madame 
and  of  Moli^re,  as  they  look,  darkling  and  sombre,  out  of 

37 


/ET.    22 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873  their  niches  in  the  great  gingerbread  fajiade  of  the  Grand 
'^S^*  go  wonderfully  hand  in  hand. 

I  wonder  if  my  revised  paper  has  pleased  the  Satur- 
day? If  it  has  not,  I  shall  be  rather  sorry— no,  very  sorry 
indeed — but  not  surprised  and  certainly  not  hurt.  It 
will  be  a  great  disappointment;  but  I  am  glad  to  say 
that,  among  all  my  queasy,  troublesome  feelings,  I  have 
not  a  sensitive  vanity.  Not  that  I  am  not  as  conceited 
as  you  know  me  to  be ;  only  I  go  easy  over  the  coals  in 
that  matter. 

I  have  been  out  reading  Hallam  in  the  garden  ;  and  have 
been  talking  with  my  old  friend  the  gardener,  a  man  of 
singularly  hard  favour  and  few  teeth.  He  consulted  me 
this  afternoon  on  the  choice  of  books,  premising  that  his 
taste  ran  mainly  on  war  and  travel.  On  travel  I  had  to 
own  at  once  my  ignorance.  I  suggested  Kinglake,  but  he 
had  read  that ;  and  so,  finding  myself  here  unhorsed,  I  turned 
about  and  at  last  recollected  Southey's  Lives  of  the  Admi- 
rals, and  the  volumes  of  Macaulay  containing  the  wars  of 
William.  Can  you  think  of  any  other  for  this  worthy 
man  ?  I  believe  him  to  hold  me  in  as  high  an  esteem  as 
any  one  can  do ;  and  I  reciprocate  his  respect,  for  he  is 
quite  an  intelligent  companion. 

On  Saturday  morning  I  read  MorIey*s  article  aloud  to 
Bob  in  one  of  the  walks  of  the  public  garden.  I  was  full 
of  it  and  read  most  excitedly ;  and  we  were  ever,  as  we 
went  to  and  fro,  passing  a  bench  where  a  man  sat  reading 
the  Bible  aloud  to  a  small  circle  of  the  devout.  This  man 
is  well  known  to  me,  sits  there  all  day,  sometimes  read- 
ing, sometimes  singing,  sometimes  distributing  tracts. 
Bob  laughed  much  at  the  opposition  preachers — I  never 
noticed  it  till  he  called  my  attention  to  the  other ;  but  it 

28 


/ET.    22 


STUDENT  DAYS 

did  not  seem  to  me  like  opposition — does  it  to  you? —    1873 
each  in  his  way  was  teaching  what  he  thought  best. 

Last  night,  after  reading  Walt  Whitman  a  long  while  for 
my  attempt  to  write  about  him,  I  got  tete-monteey  rushed 
out  up  to  M.  S.,  came  in,  took  out  Leaves  of  Grass ,  and  with- 
out giving  the  poor  unbeliever  time  to  object,  proceeded  to 
wade  into  him  with  favourite  passages.  I  had  at  least 
this  triumph,  that  he  swore  he  must  read  some  more  of 
him. —  Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

On  the  advice  of  the  Lord  Advocate  it  had  been  agreed  that  Stevenson 
should  present  himself  for  admission  as  a  student  at  one  of  the  London 
Inns  of  Court  and  should  come  to  town  after  the  middle  of  October  to 
be  examined  for  that  purpose.  The  following  two  letters  refer  to  this 
purpose  and  to  the  formalities  required  for  effecting  it  : 

[EDINBURGH,  Oct.  75,  187^],  Wednesday. 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  Of  course  I  knew  as  well  as  you 
that  I  was  merely  running  before  an  illness ;  but  I  thought 
I  should  be  in  time  to  escape.  However  I  was  knocked 
over  on  Monday  night  with  a  bad  sore  throat,  fever,  rheu- 
matism and  a  threatening  of  pleurisy,  which  last  is,  I 
think,  gone.  I  still  hope  to  be  able  to  get  away  early  next 
week,  though  I  am  not  very  clear  as  to  how  I  shall  man- 
age the  journey.  If  I  don't  get  away  on  Wednesday  at 
latest,  I  lose  my  excuse  for  going  at  all,  and  I  do  wish  to 
escape  a  little  while. 

I  shall  see  about  the  form  when  1  get  home,  which  I 
hope  will  be  to-morrow  (I  was  taken  ill  in  a  friend's  house 
and  have  not  yet  been  moved). 

29 


JET,   22 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873        How  could  a  broken-down  engineer  expect  to  make  any- 
thing of  Roads.    Requiescant.     When  we  get  well  (and  if 
we  get  well),  we  shall  do  something  better. — Yours  sin- 
cerely, R.  L.  Stevenson. 
Ye  couche  of  pain. 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  October  16,  1823],  Thursday, 

MY  DEAR  colvin,—  I  am  at  my  wits'  end  about  this 
abominable  form  of  admission.  1  don't  know  what  the 
devil  it  is;  I  haven't  got  one  even  if  I  did,  and  so  can't 
sign. 

Monday  night  is  the  very  earliest  on  which  (even  if  I  go 
on  mending  at  the  very  great  pace  I  have  made  already) 
I  can  hope  to  be  in  London  myself.  But  possibly  it  is 
only  intimation  that  requires  to  be  made  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing ;  and  one  may  possess  oneself  of  a  form  of  admission 
up  to  the  eleventh  hour.  I  send  herewith  a  letter  which 
I  must  ask  you  to  cherish,  as  I  count  it  a  sort  of  talisman. 
Perhaps  you  may  understand  it,  I  don't. 

If  you  don't  understand  it,  please  do  not  trouble  and  we 
must  just  hope  that  Tuesday  morning  will  be  early  enough 
to  do  all.  Of  course  I  fear  the  exam,  will  spin  me;  in- 
deed after  this  bodily  and  spiritual  crisis  1  should  not  dream 
of  coming  up  at  all ;  only  that  I  require  it  as  a  pretext  for  a 
moment's  escape,  which  I  want  much. 

I  am  so  glad  that  Roads  has  got  in.  I  had  almost  as 
soon  have  it  in  the  Portfolio  as  the  Saturday ;  the  P.  is  so 
nicely  printed  and  I  am  gourmet  in  type.  I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you  for  your  continual  kindness  to  me;  and 

30 


STUDENT  DAYS 


mr.  22 


I  am  afraid  I  do  not  even  feel  grateful  enough  —  you  have    1873 
let  your  kindnesses  come  on  me  so  easily. — Yours  sin- 
cerely, LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  Mrs.  SlTWELL 

When  Stevenson  a  few  days  later  came  to  London,  it  was  before  the 
physicians  and  not  the  lawyers  that  he  must  present  himself ;  and  the 
result  of  an  examination  by  Sir  Andrew  Clark  was  his  prompt  and  per- 
emptory despatch  to  Mentone  for  a  winter's  rest  and  sunshine  at  a  dis- 
tance from  all  causes  of  mental  agitation.  This  episode  of  his  life  gave 
occasion  to  the  essay  Ordered  South,  the  only  one  of  his  writings  in 
which  he  took  the  invalid  point  of  view  or  allowed  his  health  troubles 
in  any  degree  to  colour  his  work.  Travelling  south  by  slow  stages,  he 
wrote  on  the  way  a  long  diary-letter  from  which  extracts  follow  : 

Avignon  [November,  i8y^]. 

I  HAVE  just  read  your  letter  upon  the  top  of  the  hill  be- 
side the  church  and  castle.  The  whole  air  was  filled  with 
sunset  and  the  sound  of  bells;  and  I  wish  I  could  give  you 
the  least  notion  of  the  southernness  and  Pravengality  of  all 
that  I  saw. 

I  cannot  write  while  I  am  travelling ;  c^est  un  defaut; 
but  so  it  is.  I  must  have  a  certain  feeling  of  being  at  home, 
and  my  head  must  have  time  to  settle.  The  new  images 
oppress  me,  and  I  have  a  fever  of  restlessness  on  me. 
You  must  not  be  disappointed  at  such  shabby  letters ;  and 
besides,  remember  my  poor  head  and  the  fanciful  crawling 
in  the  spine. 

I  am  back  again  in  the  stage  of  thinking  there  is  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  me,  which  is  a  good  sign ;  but  I  am 
wretchedly  nervous.  Anything  like  rudeness  I  am  simply 
babyishly  afraid  of ;  and  noises,  and  especially  the  sounds 
^of  certain  voices,  are  the  devil  to  me.    A  blind  poet  whom 

31 


JET.   22 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873  I  found  selling  his  immortal  works  in  the  streets  of  Sens, 
captivated  me  with  the  remarkable  equable  strength  and 
sweetness  of  his  voice ;  and  I  listened  a  long  while  and 
bought  some  of  the  poems ;  and  now  this  voice,  after  I  had 
thus  got  it  thoroughly  into  my  head,  proved  false  metal 
and  a  really  bad  and  horrible  voice  at  bottom.  It  haunted 
me  some  time,  but  1  think  I  am  done  with  it  now. 

I  hope  you  don't  dislike  reading  bad  style  like  this  as 
much  as  I  do  writing  it :  it  hurts  me  when  neither  words 
nor  clauses  fall  into  their  places,  much  as  it  would  hurt  you 
to  sing  when  you  had  a  bad  cold  and  your  voice  deceived 
you  and  missed  every  other  note.  1  do  feel  so  inclined  to 
break  the  pen  and  write  no  more ;  and  here  apropos  begins 
my  back. 

After  dinner,— \t  blows  to-night  from  the  north  down 
the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  and  everything  is  so  cold  that  1 
have  been  obliged  to  indulge  in  a  fire.  There  is  a  fine 
crackle  and  roar  of  burning  wood  in  the  chimney  which  is 
very  homely  and  companionable,  though  it  does  seem  to 
postulate  a  town  all  white  with  snow  outside. 

I  have  bought  Sainte-Beuve's  Chateaubriand  and  am 
immensely  delighted  with  the  critic.  Chateaubriand  is 
more  antipathetic  to  me  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
.  I  begin  to  wish  myself  arrived  to-night.  Travelling, 
when  one  is  not  quite  well,  has  a  good  deal  of  unpleasant- 
ness. One  is  easily  upset  by  cross  incidents,  and  wants 
that  belle  hutneur  and  spirit  of  adventure  that  makes  a 
pleasure  out  of  what  is  unpleasant. 

Tuesday,  November  nth, — There!     There's  a  date 

for  you.     I  shall  be  in  Mentone  for  my  birthday,  with 

32 


y€T.    22 


STUDENT  DAYS 

plenty  of  nice  letters  to  read .  I  went  away  across  the  Rhone  1873 
and  up  the  hill  on  the  other  side  that  I  might  see  the  town 
from  a  distance.  Avignon  followed  me  with  its  bells  and 
drums  and  bugles;  for  the  old  city  has  no  equal  for  multi- 
tude of  such  noises.  Crossing  the  bridge  and  seeing  the 
brown  turbid  water  foam  and  eddy  about  the  piers,  one 
could  scarce  believe  one's  eyes  when  one  looked  down  upon 
the  stream  and  saw  the  smooth  blue  mirroring  tree  and 
hill.  Over  on  the  other  side,  the  sun  beat  down  so  furi- 
ously on  the  white  road  that  I  was  glad  to  keep  in  the 
shadow  and,  when  the  occasion  offered,  to  turn  aside 
among  the  olive-yards.  It  was  nine  years  and  six  months 
since  I  had  been  in  an  olive-yard.  I  found  myself  much 
changed,  not  so  gay,  but  wiser  and  more  happy.  I  read  your 
letter  again,  and  sat  awhile  looking  down  over  the  tawny 
plain  and  at  the  fantastic  outline  of  the  city.  The  hills 
seemed  just  fainting  into  the  sky ;  even  the  great  peak 
above  Carpentras  (Lord  knows  how  many  metres  above 
the  sea)  seemed  unsubstantial  and  thin  in  the  breadth  and 
potency  of  the  sunshine. 

1  should  like  to  stay  longer  here  but  I  can't.  I  am  driven 
forward  by  restlessness,  and  leave  this  afternoon  about  two. 
I  am  just  going  out  now  to  visit  again  the  church,  castle, 
and  hill,  for  the  sake  of  the  magnificent  panorama,  and  be- 
sides, because  it  is  the  friendliest  spot  in  all  Avignon  to  me. 

Later,  — You  cannot  picture  to  yourself  anything  more 
steeped  in  hard  bright  sunshine  than  the  view  from  the 
hill.  The  immgvable  inky  shadow  of  the  old  bridge  on  the 
fleeting  surface  of  the  yellow  river  seemed  more  solid  than 
the  bridge  itself.  Just  in  the  place  where  I  sat  yesterday 
evening  a  shaven  man  in  a  velvet  cap  was  studying  music 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1*73  —  evidently  one  of  the  singers  for  La  Mmtte  de  Portici  at 
^^'  ^^  the  theatre  to-night.  I  turned  back  as  I  went  away :  the 
white  Christ  stood  out  in  strong  relief  on  his  brown  cross 
against  the  blue  sky,  and  the  four  kneeling  angels  and 
lanterns  grouped  themselves  about  the  foot  with  a  sym- 
metry that  was  almost  laughable  ;  the  musician  read  on  at 
his  music,  and  counted  time  with  his  hand  on  the  stone  step. 

Menton,  November  I2th. — My  first  enthusiasm  was  on 
rising  at  Orange  and  throwing  open  the  shutters.  Such  a 
great  living  flood  of  sunshine  poured  in  upon  me,  that  I 
confess  to  having  danced  and  expressed  my  satisfaction 
aloud  ;  in  the  middle  of  which  the  boots  came  to  the  door 
with  hot  water,  to  my  great  confusion. 

To-day  has  been  one  long  delight,  coming  to  a  magnifi- 
cent climax  on  my  arrival  here.  I  gave  up  my  baggage 
to  an  hotel  porter  and  set  off  to  walk  at  once.  I  was  some- 
what confused  as  yet  as  to  my  directions,  for  the  station 
of  course  was  new  to  me,  and  the  hills  had  not  sufficiently 
opened  out  to  let  me  recognise  the  peaks.  Suddenly,  as 
I  was  going  forward  slowly  in  this  confusion  of  mind,  I 
was  met  by  a  great  volley  of  odours  out  of  the  lemon  and 
orange  gardens,  and  the  past  linked  on  to  the  present, 
and  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  whole 
scene  fell  before  me  into  order,  and  I  was  at  home.  I 
nearly  danced  again. 

I  suppose  I  must  send  off  this  to-night  to  notify  my 
arrival  in  safety  and  good-humour  and,  I  think,  in  good 
health,  before  relapsing  into  the  old  weekly  vein.  I  hope 
this  time  to  send  you  a  weekly  dose  of  sunshine  from  the 
south,  instead  of  the  jet  of  snell  Edinburgh,  east  wind  that 
used  to  was.  — Ever  your  faithful  friend,  R.  L.  S. 

34 


STUDENT  DAYS 
TO  MRS.   SITWELL  '^^'  ^^ 

Menton,  November  r^,  i8y^. 

I  MUST  pour  out  my  disgust  at  the  absence  of  a  letter ; 
my  birthday  nearly  gone,  and  devil  a  letter — I  beg  pardon. 
After  all,  now  I  think  of  it,  it  is  only  a  week  since  I  left. 

I  have  here  the  nicest  room  in  Mentone.  Let  me  ex- 
plain. Ah !  there  's  the  bell  for  the  table  d^hote.  Now  to 
see  if  there  is  any  one  conversable  within  these  walls. 

In  the  interval  my  letters  have  come;  none  from  you, 
but  one  from  Bob,  which  both  pained  and  pleased  me.  He 
cannot  get  on  without  me  at  all,  he  writes^  he  finds  that  I 
have  been  the  whole  world  for  him ;  that  he  only  talked 
to  other  people  in  order  that  he  might  tell  me  afterwards 
about  the  conversation.  Should  I  —  I  really  don't  know 
quite  what  to  feel ;  I  am  so  much  astonished,  and  almost 
more  astonished  that  he  should  have  expressed  it  than 
that  he  should  feel  it;  he  never  would  have  said  it,  I 
know.  I  feel  a  strange  sense  of  weight  and  responsibility. 
Ever  your  faithful  friend,  R.  L.  S. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  history  of  the  scruples  and  ideas  of  duty  in  regard  to  money  here 
expressed  is  set  forth  and  further  explained  in  retrospect  in  the  fragment 
called  Lay  (Morals,  written  in  1879.  The  Walt  Whitman  essay  is  not 
that  afterwards  printed  in  {Men  and  'Books,  but  an  earlier  and  more  en- 
thusiastic version.  Mr.  Dowson,  I  believe,  was  the  father  of  the  unfor- 
tunate poet,  the  late  Mr.  Ernest  Dowson.  His  acquaintance  was  the 
first  result  of  Stevenson's  search  for  "  any  one  conversable  "  in  the  hotel. 

Menton,  Sunday  [November  ^o,  i8y^]. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,— To-day  is  as  hot  as  it  has  been  in 
the  sun;  and  as  I  was  a  little  tired  and  seedy,  I  went 

35 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873  down  and  just  drank  in  sunshine.  A  strong  wind  has 
*^*  ^^  risen  out  of  the  west ;  the  great  big  dead  leaves  from  the 
roadside  planes  scuttled  about  and  chased  one  another 
over  the  gravel  round  me  with  a  noise  like  little  waves 
under  the  keel  of  a  boat,  and  jumped  up  sometimes  on  to 
my  lap  and  into  my  face.  I  lay  down  on  my  back  at  last, 
and  looked  up  into  the  sky.  The  white  corner  of  the 
hotel  with  a  wide  projection  at  the  top,  stood  out  in  daz- 
zling relief;  and  there  was  nothing  else,  save  a  few  of  the 
plane  leaves  that  had  got  up  wonderfully  high  and  turned 
and  eddied  and  flew  here  and  there  like  little  pieces  of  gold 
leaf,  to  break  the  extraordinary  sea  of  blue.  It  was  bluer 
than  anything  in  the  world  here ;  wonderfully  blue,  and 
looking  deeply  peaceful,  although  in  truth  there  was  a 
high  wind  blowing. 

1  am  concerned  about  the  plane  leaves.  Hitherto  it  has 
always  been  a  great  feature  to  see  these  trees  standing  up 
head  and  shoulders  and  chest— head  and  body,  in  fact — 
above  the  wonderful  blue-grey-greens  of  the  olives,  in  one 
glory  of  red  gold.  Much  more  of  this  wind,  and  the  gold, 
I  fear,  will  be  all  spent. 

g.20,  —  I  must  write  you  another  little  word.  I  have 
found  here  a  new  friend,  to  whom  I  grow  daily  more  de- 
voted—George Sand.  1  go  on  from  one  novel  to  another 
and  think  the  last  1  have  read  the  most  sympathetic  and 
friendly  in  tone,  until  I  have  read  another.  It  is  a  life  in 
dreamland.     Have  you  read  Mademoiselle  Mer quern? 

Monday,  — \  did  not  quite  know  last  night  what  to  say 
to  you  about  Mdlle  Merquem.  If  you  want  to  be  unpleas- 
antly moved,  read  it. 

1  am  gloomy  and  out  of  spirits  to-night  in  consequence 

36 


STUDENT  DAYS 

of  a  ridiculous  scene  at  the  table  d^hSte,  where  a  parson    1873 
whom  I  rather  liked  took  offence  at  something  I  said  and  ^^'  ^^ 
we  had  almost  a  quarrel.    It  was  mopped  up  and  stifled, 
like  spilt  wine  with  a  napkin;  but  it  leaves  an  unpleasant 
impression. 

I  have  again  ceased  all  work,  because  I  felt  that  it 
strained  my  head  a  little,  and  so  I  have  resumed  the  tedious 
task  of  waiting  with  folded  hands  for  better  days.  But 
thanks  to  George  Sand  and  the  sunshine,  I  am  very  jolly. 

That  last  word  was  so  much  out  of  key  that  I  could  sit 
no  longer,  and  went  away  to  seek  out  my  clergyman  and 
apologise  to  him.  He  was  gone  to  bed.  I  don't  know 
what  makes  me  take  this  so  much  to  heart.  I  suppose  it 's 
nerves  or  pride  or  something ;  but  I  am  unhappy  about  it. 
I  am  going  to  drown  my  sorrows  in  Consuelo  and  burn 
some  incense  in  my  pipe  to  the  god  of  Contentment  and 
Forgetful  ness. 

I  do  not  know,  but  I  hope,  if  I  can  only  get  better,  I 
shall  be  a  help  to  you  soon  in  every  way  and  no  more  a 
trouble  and  burthen.  All  my  difficulties  about  life  have 
so  cleared  away ;  the  scales  have  fallen  from  my  eyes, 
and  the  broad  road  of  my  duty  lies  out  straight  before  me 
without  cross  or  hindrance.  I  have  given  up  all  hope,  all 
fancy  rather,  of  making  literature  my  hold:  I  see  that  1 
have  not  capacity  enough.  My  life  shall  be,  if  I  can  make 
it,  my  only  business.  I  am  desirous  to  practise  now, 
rather  than  to  preach,  for  I  know  that  I  should  ever  preach 
badly,  and  men  can  more  easily  forgive  faulty  practice 
than  dull  sermons.  If  Colvin  does  not  think  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  support  myself  soon  by  literature,  I  shall  give 
it  up  and  go  (horrible  as  the  thought  is  to  me)  into  an 
office  of  some  sort :  the  first,  the  main  question  is,  that  I 
must  live  by  my  own  hands;  after  that  come  the  others. 

37 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873  You  will  not  regard  me  as  a  madman,  I  am  sure.  It  is 
*  ^^  a  very  rational  aberration  at  least  to  try  to  put  your  be- 
liefs into  practice.  Strangely  enough,  it  has  taken  me  a 
long  time  to  see  this  distinctly  with  regard  to  my  whole 
creed ;  but  I  have  seen  it  at  last,  praised  be  my  sickness 
and  my  leisure !  I  have  seen  it  at  last ;  the  sun  of  my 
duty  has  risen ;  I  have  enlisted  for  the  first  time,  and  after 
long  coquetting  with  the  shilling,  under  the  banner  of  the 
Holy  Ghost !» 

5. 75.— If  you  had  seen  the  moon  last  night!  It  was 
like  transfigured  sunshine;  as  clear  and  mellow,  only  show- 
ing everything  in  a  new  wonderful  significance.  The  shad- 
ows of  the  leaves  on  the  road  were  so  strangely  black  that 
Dowson  and  I  had  difficulty  in  believing  that  they  were 
not  solid,  or  at  least  pools  of  dark  mire.  And  the  hills  and 
the  trees,  and  the  white  Italian  houses  with  lit  windows  ! 
O!  nothing  could  bring  home  to  you  the  keenness  and 
the  reality  and  the  wonderful  Unheimlichheit  of  all  these. 
When  the  moon  rises  every  night  over  the  Italian  coast,  it 
makes  a  long  path  over  the  sea  as  yellow  as  gold. 

How  I  happened  to  be  out  in  the  moonlight  yesterday, 
was  that  Dowson  and  I  spent  the  evening  with  an  odd 
man  called  Bates,  who  played  Italian  music  to  us  with 
great  feeling ;  all  of  which  was  quite  a  dissipation  in  my 
still  existence. 

Friday,  —  I  cannot  endure  to  be  dependent  much  longer, 
it  stops  my  mouth.  Something  I  must  find  shortly.  I 
mean  when  I  am  able  for  anything.  However  I  am  much 
better  already ;  and  have  been  writing  not  altogether  my 
worst  although  not  very  well.  Walt  Whitman  is  stopped. 
^Alluding  to  Heine's  Ritter  von  dem  heiligen  Cast. 
38 


STUDENT  DAYS 

I  have  bemired  it  so  atrociously  by  working  at  it  when  I  1873 
was  out  of  humour  that  1  must  let  the  colour  dry ;  and  *  ^ 
alas !  what  I  have  been  doing  in  this  place  doesn't  seem 
to  promise  any  money.  However,  it  is  all  practice  and 
it  interests  myself  extremely.  I  have  now  received  ;^8o, 
some  i^55  of  which  still  remain;  all  this  is  more  debt  to 
civilisation  and  my  fellowmen.  When  shall  I  be  able  to 
pay  it  back  ?  You  do  not  know  how  much  this  money 
question  begins  to  take  more  and  more  importance  in  my 
eyes  every  day.  It  is  an  old  phrase  of  mine  that  money 
is  the  atmosphere  of  civilised  life,  and  I  do  hate  to  take  the 
breath  out  of  other  people's  nostrils.  I  live  here  at  the 
rate  of  more  than  £'^  a  week  and  I  do  nothing  for  it.  If  I 
didn't  hope  to  get  well  and  do  good  work  yet  and  more 
than  repay  my  debts  to  the  world,  I  should  consider  it 
right  to  invest  an  extra  franc  or  two  in  laudanum.  But  I 
will  repay  it.  —  Always  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

To  Charles  Baxter 

[Menton,  December,  i87^,\ 
MY  DEAR  BAXTER, — At  last,  I  must  write.  I  must  say 
straight  out  that  I  am  not  recovering  as  I  could  wish.  1 
am  no  stronger  than  I  was  when  I  came  here,  and  I  pay 
for  every  walk^  beyond  say  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length, 
by  one  or  two,  or  even  three,  days  of  more  or  less  pros- 
tration. Therefore  let  nobody  be  down  upon  me  for  not 
writing.  I  was  very  thankful  to  you  for  answering  my 
letter ;  and  for  the  princely  action  of  Simpson  in  writing 
to  me,  I  mean  before  I  had  written  to  him,  I  was  ditto  to  an 
almost  higher  degree.     I  hope  one  or  another  of  you  will 

39 


iBT.  23 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1^73    write  again  soon ;  and,  remember,  I  still  live  in  hope  of 
reading  Grahame  Murray's  address. 

I  have  not  made  a  joke,  upon  my  living  soul,  since  I  left 
London.  O !  except  one,  a  very  small  one,  that  I  had 
made  before,  and  that  I  very  timidly  repeated  in  a  half- 
exhilarated  state  towards  the  close  of  dinner,  like  one  of 
those  dead-alive  flies,  that  we  see  pretending  to  be  quite 
light  and  full  of  the  frivolity  of  youth  in  the  first  sunshiny 
days.  It  was  about  mothers'  meetings,  and  it  was  damned 
small,  and  it  was  my  ewe  lamb — the  Lord  knows,  I  couldn't 
have  made  another  to  save  my  life — and  a  clergyman 
quarrelled  with  me,  and  there  was  as  nearly  an  explosion 
as  could  be.  This  has  not  fostered  my  leaning  towards 
pleasantry.  I  felt  that  it  was  a  very  cold,  hard  world  that 
night. 

My  dear  Charles,  is  the  sky  blue  at  Mentone  ?  Was 
that  your  question  ?  Well,  it  depends  upon  what  you  call 
blue ;  it 's  a  question  of  taste,  I  suppose.  Is  the  sky  blue  ? 
You  poor  critter,  you  never  saw  blue  sky  worth  being 
called  blue  in  the  same  day  with  it.  And  I  should  rather 
fancy  that  the  sun  did  shine,  I  should.  And  the  moon 
doesn't  shine  either.  O  no  I  (This  last  is  sarcastic.) 
Mentone  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  the  world, 
and  has  always  had  a  very  warm  corner  in  my  heart  since 
first  I  knew  it  eleven  years  ago. 

nth  December. — I  live  in  the  same  hotel  with  Lord  X. 
He  has  black  whiskers,  and  has  been  successful  in  raising 
some  kids  ;  rather  a  melancholy  success;  they  are  weedy 
looking  kids  in  Highland  clo'.  They  have  a  tutor  with 
them  who  respires  Piety  and  that  kind  of  humble  your- 
lordship's-most-obedient  sort  of  gentlemanliness  that  noble- 

40 


STUDENT  DAYS 

men's  tutors  have  generally.  They  all  get  livings,  these  1873 
men,  and  silvery  hair  and  a  gold  watch  from  their  attached  ^^'  ^^ 
pupil;  and  they  sit  in  the  porch  and  make  the  watch 
repeat  for  their  little  grandchildren,  and  tell  them  long 
stories,  beginning,  **When  I  was  a  private  tutor  in  the 
family  of,"  etc.,  and  the  grandchildren  cock  snooks  at 
them  behind  their  backs  and  go  away  whenever  they  can 
to  get  the  groom  to  teach  them  bad  words. 

Sidney  Colvin  will  arrive  here  on  Saturday  or  Sunday; 
so  I  shall  have  some  one  to  jaw  with.  And,  seriously,  this 
is  a  great  want.  I  have  not  been  all  these  weeks  in  idle- 
ness, as  you  may  fancy,  without  much  thinking  as  to  my 
future;  and  I  have  a  great  deal  in  view  that  may  or  may 
not  be  possible  (that  I  do  not  yet  know),  but  that  is  at 
least  an  object  and  a  hope  before  me.  I  cannot  help  re- 
curring to  seriousness  a  moment  before  I  stop ;  for  I  must 
say  that  living  here  a  good  deal  alone,  and  having  had 
ample  time  to  look  back  upon  my  past,  I  have  become  very 
serious  all  over.  If  I  can  only  get  back  my  health,  by 
God !  I  shall  not  be  as  useless  as  I  have  been. — Ever  yours, 
mon  vieux,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

TO  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  December,  i8j^\,  Sunday, 
The  first  violet.  There  is  more  sweet  trouble  for  the 
heart  in  the  breath  of  this  small  flower  than  in  all  the 
wines  of  all  the  vineyards  of  Europe.  I  cannot  contain 
myself.  I  do  not  think  so  small  a  thing  has  ever  given  me 
such  a  princely  festival  of  pleasure.  I  feel  as  if  my  heart 
were  a  little  bunch  of  violets  in  my  bosom ;  and  my  brain 
is  pleasantly  intoxicated  with  the  wonderful  odour.    I 

41 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873  suppose  1  am  writing  nonsense,  but  it  does  not  seem  non- 
^  '  ^^  sense  to  me.  Is  it  not  a  wonderful  odour  ?  is  it  not  some- 
thing incredibly  subtle  and  perishable?  It  is  like  a  wind 
blowing  to  one  out  of  fairyland.  No  one  need  tell  me  that 
the  phrase  is  exaggerated  if  I  say  that  this  violet  sings  ;  it  sings 
with  the  same  voice  as  the  March  blackbird ;  and  the  same 
adorable  tremor  goes  through  one's  soul  at  the  hearing  of  it. 

Monday,  —  All  yesterday  I  was  under  the  influence  of 
opium.  I  had  been  rather  seedy  during  the  night  and  took 
a  dose  in  the  morning,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  it 
took  effect  upon  me.  I  had  a  day  of  extraordinary  happi- 
ness ;  and  when  I  went  to  bed  there  was  something  almost 
terrifying  in  the  pleasures  that  besieged  me  in  the  dark- 
ness. Wonderful  tremors  filled  me;  my  head  swam  in 
the  most  delirious  but  enjoyable  manner;  and  the  bed 
softly  oscillated  with  me,  like  a  boat  in  a  very  gentle  rip- 
ple. It  does  not  make  me  write  a  good  style  apparently, 
which  is  just  as  well,  lest  I  should  be  tempted  to  renew 
the  experiment ;  and  some  verses  which  I  wrote  turn  out 
on  inspection  to  be  not  quite  equal  to  Kuhla  Khan,  How- 
ever, I  was  happy,  and  the  recollection  is  not  troubled  by 
any  reaction  this  morning. 

Wednesday. — Do  you  know,  I  think  I  am  much  better. 
1  really  enjoy  things,  and  I  really  feel  dull  occasionally, 
neither  of  which  was  possible  with  me  before ;  and  though 
I  am  still  tired  and  weak,  I  almost  think  I  feel  a  stirring 
among  the  dry  bones.  O,  I  should  like  to  recover,  and  be 
once  more  well  and  happy  and  fit  for  work !  And  then  to 
be  able  to  begin  really  to  my  life ;  to  have  done,  for  the 
rest  of  time,  with  preluding  and  doubting;  and  to  take 

A2 


STUDENT  DAYS 

hold  of  the  pillars  strongly  with  Samson — to  burn  my  ships    1873 
with  (whoever  did  it).     O,  I  begin  to  feel  my  spirits  come  ^^'  ^^ 
back  to  me  again  at  the  thought ! 

Thursday,— \  sat  along  the  beach  this  morning  under 
some  reeds  (or  canes — I  know  not  which  they  are) :  every- 
thing was  so  tropical ;  nothing  visible  but  the  glaring  white 
shingle,  the  blue  sea,  the  blue  sky,  and  the  green  plumes 
of  the  canes  thrown  out  against  the  latter  some  ten  or  fif- 
teen feet  above  my  head.  The  noise  of  the  surf  alone 
broke  the  quiet.  I  had  somehow  got  Ueber  alien  Gip- 
feln  ist  Ruh  into  my  head ;  and  I  was  happy  for  I  do  not 
know  how  long,  sitting  there  and  repeating  to  myself 
these  lines.  It  is  wonderful  how  things  somehow  fall  into 
a  full  satisfying  harmony,  and  out  of  the  fewest  elements 
there  is  established  a  sort  of  small  perfection.  It  was  so 
this  morning.     I  did  not  want  anything  further. 

To  Mrs.   SlTWELL 

In  the  third  week  of  December  I  went  out  to  join  my  friend  for  a 
part  of  the  Christmas  vacation,  and  found  him  without  tangible  disease, 
but  very  weak  and  ailing  ;  ill-health  and  anxiety,  however,  neither  then 
nor  at  any  time  diminished  his  charm  as  a  companion.  He  left  Men- 
tone  to  meet  me  at  the  old  town  of  Monaco,  where  we  spent  a  few  days 
and  from  whence  these  stray  notes  of  nature  and  human  nature  were 
written. 

Monaco,  Tuesday  [December ,  i8y^]. 
We  have  been  out  all  day  in  a  boat ;  lovely  weather 
and  almost  dead  calm,  only  the  most  infinitesimal  and  in- 
determinate of  oscillations  moved  us  hither  and  thither; 
the  sails  were  duly  set,  and  flapped  about  idly  overhead. 
Our  boatman  was  a  man  of  a  delightful  humour,  who  told 
us  many  tales  of  the  sea,  notably  one  of  a  doctor,  who 

43 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1873  was  an  Englishman,  and  who  seemed  almost  an  epitome 
^  '  ^^  of  vices— drunken,  dishonest,  and  utterly  without  faith; 
and  yet  he  was  dicharmant gargon.  He  told  us  many  amus- 
ing circumstances  of  the  doctor's  incompetence  and  dis- 
honesty, and  imitated  his  accent  with  a  singular  success. 
I  couldn't  quite  see  that  he  was  a  charming  gargon—*'0, 
oui—comme  caractbre,  un  charmant  gargon,"  We  landed 
on  that  Cap  Martin,  the  place  of  firs  and  rocks  and  myr- 
tle and  rosemary  of  which  I  spoke  to  you.  As  we  pulled 
along  in  the  fresh  shadow,  the  wonderfully  clean  scents 
blew  out  upon  us,  as  if  from  islands  of  spice — only  how 
much  better  than  cloves  and  cinnamon ! 

Friday. — Colvin  and  I  are  sitting  on  a  seat  on  the  bat- 
tlemented  gardens  of  Old  Monaco.  The  day  is  grey  and 
clouded,  with  a  little  red  light  on  the  horizon,  and  the  sea, 
hundreds  of  feet  below  us,  is  a  sort  of  purple  dove-colour. 
Shrub-geraniums,  firs,  and  aloes  cover  all  available  shelves 
and  terraces,  and  where  these  become  impossible,  the 
prickly  pear  precipitates  headlong  downwards  its  bunches 
of  oval  plates ;  so  that  the  whole  face  of  the  cliff  is  cov- 
ered with  an  arrested  fall  (please  excuse  clumsy  lan- 
guage), a  sort  of  fall  of  the  evil  angels  petrified  midway  on 
its  career.  White  gulls  sail  past  below  us  every  now  and 
then,  sometimes  singly,  sometimes  by  twos  and  threes, 
and  sometimes  in  a  great  flight.  The  sharp  perfume  of 
the  shrub-geraniums  fills  the  air. 

1  cannot  write,  in  any  sense  of  the  word ;  but  I  am  as 
happy  as  can  be,  and  wish  to  notify  the  fact,  before  it 
passes.  The  sea  is  blue,  grey,  purple  and  green;  very 
subdued  and  peaceful ;  earlier  in  the  day  it  was  marbled 
by  small  keen  specks  of  sun  and  larger  spaces  of  faint  irra- 

44 


STUDENT  DAYS 

diation ;  but  the  clouds  have  closed  together  now,  and  these  1874 
appearances  are  no  more.  Voices  of  children  and  occa-  *  ^ 
sional  crying  of  gulls ;  the  mechanical  noise  of  a  gardener 
somewhere  behind  us  in  the  scented  thicket;  and  the  faint 
report  and  rustle  of  the  waves  on  the  precipice  far  below, 
only  break  in  upon  the  quietness  to  render  it  more  com- 
plete and  perfect.  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

After  spending  a  few  days  in  one  of  the  more  retired  hotels  of  Monte 
Carlo,  we  went  on  to  Mentone  and  settled  at  the  Hotel  Mirabeau,  long 
since,  I  believe,  defunct,  near  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  town.  The 
little  American  girl  mentioned  in  the  last  paragraph  is  the  same  we 
shall  meet  later  under  her  full  name  of  Marie  Johnstone. 

[HOTEL  Mirabeau],  NiEmoN  January  2nd,  1874, 
Here  I  am  over  in  the  east  bay  of  Mentone,  where  I  am 
not  altogether  sorry  to  find  myself.  I  move  so  little  that 
I  soon  exhaust  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  my  dwelling 
places.  Our  reason  for  coming  here  was  however  very 
simple.  Hobson's  choice.  Mentone  during  my  absence 
has  filled  marvellously. 

Continue  to  address  P.  R.^  Menton ;  and  try  to  con- 
ceive it  as  possible  that  I  am  not  a  drivelling  idiot.  When 
I  wish  an  address  changed,  it  is  quite  on  the  cards  that  I 
shall  be  able  to  find  language  explicit  enough  to  express 
the  desire.  My  whole  desire  is  to  avoid  complication  of 
addresses.  It  is  quite  fatal.  If  two  P.  R.*s  have  contra- 
dictory orders  they  will  continue  to  play  battledoor  and 
shuttlecock  with  an  unhappy  epistle,  which  will  never  get 
farther  afield  but  perish  there  miserably. 
*  Poste  Restante. 
45 


LETTERS  OF  R.  U  STEVENSON 

1874        You  act  too  much  on  the  principle  that  whatever  1  do  is 
^  '  ^^  done  unwisely ;  and  that  whatever  I  do  not,  has  been  cul- 
pably forgotten.     This  is  wounding  to  my  natural  vanity. 

I  have  not  written  for  three  days  I  think ;  but  what 
days !  They  were  very  cold  ;  and  I  must  say  that  I  was 
able  thoroughly  to  appreciate  the  blessings  of  Mentone.  Old 
Smoko  this  winter  would  evidently  have  been  very  sum- 
mary with  me.  I  could  not  stand  the  cold  at  all.  I  ex- 
hausted all  my  own  and  all  Colvin's  clothing ;  I  then  retired 
to  the  house,  and  then  to  bed ;  in  a  condition  of  sorrow 
for  myself  unequalled.  The  sun  is  forth  again  (laus  Deo) 
and  the  wind  is  milder,  and  I  am  greatly  re-established. 
A  certain  asperity  of  temper  still  lingers,  however,  which 
Colvin  supports  with  much  mildness. 

In  this  hotel,  I  have  a  room  on  the  first  floor !  Luxury, 
however,  is  not  altogether  regardless  of  expense.  We  only 
pay  13  francs  per  day —  3>^  more  than  at  the  Pavilion  on 
the  third  floor.  —  And  beggars  must  not  be  choosers.  We 
were  very  nearly  houseless,  the  night  we  came.  And  it 
is  rarely  that  such  winds  of  adversity  blow  men  into  king's 
Palaces. 

Looking  over  what  has  gone  before,  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
is  not  strictly  polite.    I  beg  to  withdraw  all  that  is  offensive. 

At  table  d'hotey  we  have  some  people  who  amuse  us 
much  ;  two  Americans,  who  would  try  to  pass  for  French 
people,  and  their  daughter,  the  most  charming  of  little  girls. 
Both  Colvin  and  I  have  planned  an  abduction  already. 
The  whole  hotel  is  devoted  to  her ;  and  the  waiters  con- 
tinually do  smuggle  out  comfits  and  fruit  and  pudding  to- 
her. 

All  well. — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 
46 


STUDENT  DAYS 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton],  Sunday,  nth  January,  1874, 

In  many  ways  this  hotel  is  more  amusing  than  the 
Pavilion.  There  are  the  children,  to  begin  with ;  and  then 
there  are  games  every  evening  —  the  stool  of  repentance, 
question  and  answer,  etc. ;  and  then  we  speak  French, 
although  that  is  not  exactly  an  advantage  in  so  far  as  per- 
sonal brilliancy  is  concerned. 

I  am  in  lovely  health  again  to-day  :  I  walked  as  far  as 
the  Pont  St.  Louis  very  nearly,  besides  walking  and  knock- 
ing about  among  the  olives  in  the  afternoon.  I  do  not 
make  much  progress  with  my  French ;  but  I  do  make 
a  little,  I  think.  I  was  pleased  with  my  success  this  even- 
ing, though  I  do  not  know  if  others  shared  the  satisfaction. 

The  two  Russian  ladies  are  from  Georgia  all  the  way. 
They  do  not  at  all  answer  to  the  description  of  Georgian 
slaves  however,  being  graceful  and  refined,  and  only  good- 
looking  after  you  know  them  a  bit. 

Please  remember  me  very  kindly  to  the  Jenkins,  and 
thank  them  for  having  asked  about  me.  Tell  Mrs.  J.  that 
I  am  engaged  in  perfecting  myself  in  the  '*  Gallic  idiom," 
in  order  to  be  a  worthier  Vatel  for  the  future.  Monsieur 
Follete,  our  host,  is  a  Vatel  by  the  way.  He  cooks  him- 
self, and  is  not  insensible  to  flattery  on  the  score  of  his 
table.  I  began,  of  course,  to  complain  of  the  wine  (part  of 
the  routine  of  life  at  Mentone)  ;  I  told  him  that  where 
one  found  a  kitchen  so  exquisite,  one  astonished  oneself 
that  the  wine  was  not  up  to  the  same  form.  **Et  voilk 
precisement  mon  cote  faible,  monsieur,"  he  replied,  with 
an  indescribable  amplitude  of  gesture.     *  ^  Que  voulez- 

47 


T874 

/ET.   2X 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  vous  ?  Moi/je  suis  cuisinier ! "  It  was  as  though  Shake- 
^^'  ^^  speare,  called  to  account  for  some  such  peccadillo  as  the 
Bohemian  seaport,  should  answer  magnificently  that  he 
was  a  poet.  So  Follete  lives  in  a  golden  zone  of  a  certain 
sort — a  golden,  or  rather  torrid  zone,  whence  he  issues 
twice  daily  purple  as  to  his  face — and  all  these  clouds  and 
vapours  and  ephemeral  winds  pass  far  below  him  and  dis- 
turb him  not. 

He  has  another  hobby  however  —  his  garden,  round 
which  it  is  his  highest  pleasure  to  lead  the  unwilling  guest. 
Whenever  he  is  not  in  the  kitchen,  he  is  hanging  round 
loose,  seeking  whom  he  may  show  his  garden  to.  Much 
of  my  time  is  passed  in  studiously  avoiding  him,  and  I 
have  brought  the  art  to  a  very  extreme  pitch  of  perfection. 
The  fox,  often  hunted,  becomes  wary.  — Ever  your  affec- 
tionate son,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  y^««^rv,  1874],  Wednesday. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, —  It  is  still  SO  cold,  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  miserable  the  weather  is.  I  have  begun  my  **Walt 
Whitman*'  again  seriously.  Many  winds  have  blown 
since  I  last  laid  it  down,  when  sickness  took  me  in  Edin- 
burgh. It  seems  almost  like  an  ill-considered  jest  to  take 
up  these  old  sentences,  written  by  so  different  a  person 
under  circumstances  so  different,  and  try  to  string  them 
together  and  organise  them  into  something  anyway  whole 
and  comely ;  it  is  like  continuing  another  man's  book. 
Almost  every  word  is  a  little  out  of  tune  to  me  now  but  I 
shall  pull  it  through  for  all  that  and  make  something  that 

48 


STUDENT  DAYS 

will  interest  you  yet  on  this  subject  that  I  had  proposed    1874 
to  myself  and  partly  planned  already,  before  I  left  for  ^^'  ^^ 
Cockfield  last  July. 

I  am  very  anxious  to  hear  how  you  are.  My  own 
health  is  quite  very  good ;  I  am  a  healthy  octogenarian ; 
very  old,  1  thank  you  and  of  course  not  so  active  as  a 
young  man,  but  hale  withal ;  a  lusty  December.  This  is 
so;  such  is  R.  L.  S. 

1  am  a  little  bothered  about  Bob,  a  little  afraid  that  he  is 
living  too  poorly.  The  fellow  he  chums  with  spends  only 
two  francs  a  day  on  food,  with  a  little  excess  every  day  or 
two  to  keep  body  and  soul  together,  and  though  Bob  is  not 
so  austere  1  am  afraid  he  draws  it  rather  too  fine  himself. 

Friday, — We  have  all  got  our  photographs ;  it  is  pretty 
fair,  they  say,  of  me  and  as  they  are  particular  in  the  mat- 
ter of  photographs,  and  besides  partial  judges,  I  suppose  1 
may  take  th^^t  for  proven.  Of  Nellie  there  is  one  quite 
adorable.  The  weather  is  still  cold.  My  **  Walt  Whit- 
man'* at  last  looks  really  well:  I  think  it  is  going  to  get 
into  shape  in  spite  of  the  long  gestation. 

Sunday,  —  Still  cold  and  grey,  and  a  high  imperious  wind 
off  the  sea.  I  see  nothing  particularly  couleur  de  rose  this 
morning :  but  I  am  trying  to  be  faithful  to  my  creed  and 
hope.  O  yes,  one  can  do  something  to  make  things  hap- 
pier and  better ;  and  to  give  a  good  example  before  men 
and  show  them  how  goodness  and  fortitude  and  faith  re- 
main undiminished  after  they  have  been  stripped  bare  of  all 
that  is  formal  and  outside.  We  must  do  that ;  you  have 
done  it  already ;  and  I  shall  follow  and  shall  make  a  worthy 
life,  and  you  must  live  to  approve  of  me.  R.  L.  S. 

49 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

^T?23  TO  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  following  are  two  different  impressions  of  the  Mediterranean, 
dated  on  two  different  Mondays  in  January  : 

Yes,  I  am  much  better;  very  much  better  I  think  I  may 
say.  Although  it  is  funny  how  I  have  ceased  to  be  able 
to  write  with  the  Improvement  of  my  health.  Do  you 
notice  how  for  some  time  back  you  have  had  no  descrip- 
tions of  anything  ?  The  reason  is  that  I  can't  describe 
anything.  No  words  come  to  me  when  I  see  a  thing.  I 
want  awfully  to  tell  you  to-day  about  a  little  ''piece**  of 
green  sea,  and  gulls,  and  clouded  sky  with  the  usual 
golden  mountain-breaks  to  the  southward.  It  was  won- 
derful, the  sea  near  at  hand  was  living  emerald ;  the  white 
breasts  and  wings  of  the  gulls  as  they  circled  above — high 
above  even — were  dyed  bright  green  by  the  reflection. 
And  if  you  could  only  have  seen  or  if  any  right  word 
would  only  come  to  my  pen  to  tell  you  how  wonderfully 
these  illuminated  birds  floated  hither  and  thither  under 
the  grey  purples  of  the  sky ! 


To-day  has  been  windy  but  not  cold.  The  sea  was 
troubled  and  had  a  fine  fresh  saline  smell  like  our  own 
seas,  and  the  sight  of  the  breaking  waves,  and  above  all 
the  spray  that  drove  now  and  again  in  my  face,  carried  me 
back  to  storms  that  I  have  enjoyed,  O  how  much!  in 
other  places.  Still  (as  Madame  Zassetsky  justly  remarked) 
there  is  something  irritating  in  a  stormy  sea  whose  waves 
come  always  to  the  same  spot  and  never  farther :  it  looks 
like  playing  at  passion :  it  reminds  one  of  the  loathsome 
sham  waves  in  a  stage  ocean. 


so 


STUDENT  DAYS 

TO  Sidney  Colvin 

[Menton,  January,  18^4,] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  I  write  to  let  you  know  that  my 
cousin  may  possibly  come  to  Paris  before  you  leave ;  he 
will  likely  look  you  up  to  hear  about  me,  etc.  I  want  to 
tell  you  about  him  before  you  see  him,  as  I  am  tired  of 
people  misjudging  him.  You  know  me  now.  Well,  Bob 
is  just  such  another  mutton,  only  somewhat  farther  wan- 
dered. He  has  all  the  same  elements  of  character  that  I 
have :  no  two  people  were  ever  more  alike,  only  that  the 
world  has  gone  more  unfortunately  for  him  although  more 
evenly.  Besides  which,  he  is  really  a  gentleman,  and  an 
admirable  true  friend,  which  is  not  a  common  article.  I 
write  this  as  a  letter  of  introduction  in  case  he  should 
catch  you  ere  you  leave. 

Monday, — No  letters  to-day.  Sacre  chien,  Dieu  de  Dim 
— and  I  have  written  with  exemplary  industry.  But  I  am 
hoping  that  no  news  is  good  news  and  shall  continue  so  to 
hope  until  all  is  blue. — Ever  yours, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

TO  Sidney  Colvin 

It  had  been  a  very  cold  Christmas  at  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo,  and 
Stevenson  had  no  adequate  overcoat,  so  it  was  agreed  that  when  I  went 
to  Paris  I  should  try  and  find  him  a  warm  cloak  or  wrap.  I  amused 
myself  looking  for  one  suited  to  his  taste  for  the  picturesque  and  pirati- 
cal in  apparel,  and  found  one  in  the  style  of  1830-40,  dark  blue  and 
flowing,  and  fastening  with  a  snake  buckle. 

[NiEKYOH y  Janimty,  1874],  Friday, 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Thank  you  very  much  for  your 
note.    This  morning  I  am  stupid  again ;  can  do  nothing  at 

SI 


1S74 

>ET.  23 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874    all;  am  no  good  "comme  plumitif."     I  think  it  must  be 
^^'  ^^  the  cold  outside.     At  least  that  would  explain  my  addled 
head  and  intense  laziness. 

O  why  did  you  tell  me  about  that  cloak  ?  Why  didn't 
you  buy  it  ?  Isn't  it  in  Julius  Cassar  that  Pompey 
blames — no  not  Pompey  but  a  friend  of  Pompey 's — well, 
Pompey 's  friend,  I  mean  the  friend  of  Pompey — blames 
somebody  else  who  was  his  friend — that  is  who  was  the 
friend  of  Pompey 's  friend — because  he  (the  friend  of  Pom- 
pey's  friend)  had  not  done  something  right  off,  but  had 
come  and  asked  him  (Pompey's  friend)  whether  he  (the 
friend  of  Pompey's  friend)  ought  to  do  it  or  no  ?  There  I 
fold  my  hands  with  some  complacency :  that 's  a  piece  of 
very  good  narration.  I  am  getting  into  good  form.  These 
classical  instances  are  always  distracting.  1  was  talking  of 
the  cloak.  It 's  awfully  dear.  Are  there  no  cheap  and 
nasty  imitations?  Think  of  that— if,  however,  it  were 
the  opinion  (ahem)  of  competent  persons  that  the  great 
cost  of  the  mantle  in  questipn  was  no  more  than  propor- 
tionate to  its  durability ;  if  it  were  to  be  a  joy  for  ever ;  if 
it  would  cover  my  declining  years  and  survive  me  in  any- 
thing like  integrity  for  the  comfort  of  my  executors;  if  — 
I  have  the  word— if  the  price  indicates  (as  it  seems)  the 
quality  of  perdurahility  in  the  fabric ;  if,  in  fact,  it  would 
not  be  extravagant,  but  only  the  leariest  economy  to  lay 
out  £^  15  in  a  single  mantle  without  seam  and  without 
price,  and  if — and  if — it  really  fastens  with  an  agrafe — I 
would  BUY  it.  But  not  unless.  If  not  a  cheap  imitation 
would  be  the  move.— Ever  yours,  R.  L.  S. 


STUDENT  DAYS 


TO  MRS.  Thomas  Stevenson 

The  following  is  in  answer  to  a  set  of  numbered  questions,  of  which 
the  first  three  are  of  no  general  interest. 

[Menton],  Monday,  January  jgth,  1874. 
Answers  to  a  series  of  questions. 

4.  Nelitchka,  or  Nelitska,  as  you  know  already  by  this 
time,  is  my  adorable  kid's  name.  Her  laugh  does  more 
good  to  one's  health  than  a  month  at  the  seaside :  as  she 
said  to-day  herself,  when  asked  whether  she  was  a  boy  or  a 
girl,  after  having  denied  both  with  gravity,  she  is  an  angel. 

5.  O  no,  her  brain  is  not  in  a  chaos;  it  is  only  the 
brains  of  those  who  hear  her.  It  is  all  plain  sailing  for  her. 
She  wishes  to  refuse  or  deny  anything,  and  there  is  the 
English  **Nofank  you"  ready  to  her  hand;  she  wishes 
to  admire  anything,  and  there  is  the  German  **schon"; 
she  wishes  to  sew  (which  she  does  with  admirable  serious- 
ness and  clumsiness),  and  there  is  the  French  *'  coudre"; 
she  wishes  to  say  she  is  ill,  and  there  is  the  Russian 
** bulla"  ;  she  wishes  to  be  down  on  any  one,  and  there 
is  the  Italian  **Berecchino"  ;  she  wishes  to  play  at  a 
railway  train,  and  there  is  her  own  original  word  *'  Collie" 
(say  the  o  with  a  sort  of  Gaelic  twirl).  And  all  these 
words  are  equally  good. 

7.  I  am  called  M.  Stevenson  by  everybody  except 
Nelitchka,  who  calls  me  M.  Berecchino. 

8.  The  weather  to-day  is  no  end :  as  bright  and  as  warm 
as  ever.  I  have  [been  out  on  the  beach  all  afternoon 
with  the  Russians.  Madame  Garschine  has  been  reading 
Russian  to  me ;  and  I  cannot  tell  prose  from  verse  in  that 

53 


1874     * 

>CT.   23 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1^4    delectable  tongue,  which  is  a  pity.    Johnson  came  out  to 
*  ^^  tell  us  that  Corsica  was  visible,  and  there  it  was  over  a 
white,  sweltering  sea,  just  a  little  darker  than  the  pallid 
blue  of  the  sky,  and  when  one  looked  at  it  closely,  break- 
ing up  into  sun-brightened  peaks. 

I  may  mention  that  Robinet  has  never  heard  an  English- 
man with  so  little  accent  as  I  have — ahem — ahem — eh  ? — 
What  do  you  say  to  that  ?     I  don't  suppose  I  have  said 
Tive  sentences  in  English  to-day;    all  French;   all  bad 
French,  alas! 

I  am  thought  to  be  looking  better.  Madame  Zassetsky 
said  I  was  all  green  when  I  came  here  first,  but  that  I  am 
all  right  in  colour  now,  and  she  thinks  fatter.  I  am  very 
partial  to  the  Russians ;  I  believe  they  are  rather  partial 
to  me.  I  am  supposed  to  be  an  esprit  ohservateur!  A 
mon  age,  c'est  etonnant  comme  je suis  ohservateur! 

The  second  volume  of  Clement  Marot  has  come.  Where 
and  O  where  is  the  first  ?  — Ever  your  affectionate 

ROBERT  Louis  Stevenson. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  Bottle  here  mentioned  is  a  story  that  had  been  some  time  in 
hand  called  The  Curate  of  Anstruther' s  Bottle;  afterwards  abandoned 
like  so  many  early  attempts  of  the  same  kind. 

[NiEmo^y  January,  1874,] 
MY  DEAR  S.  C,  —  I  suppose  this  will  be  my  last  note 
then.  I  think  you  will  find  everything  very  jolly  here,  I 
am  very  jolly  myself.  I  worked  six  hours  to-day.  I  am 
occupied  in  transcribing  The  Bottle^  which  is  pleasant  work 
to  me ;  I  find  much  in  it  that  I  still  think  excellent  and 
much  that  I  am  doubtful  about;  my  convention  is  so  ter- 

54 


STUDENT  DAYS 

ribly  difficult  that  1  have  to  put  out  much  that  pleases  me,  1874 
and  much  that  I  still  preserve  I  only  preserve  with  misgiv-  ^  '  ^^ 
ing.  I  wonder  if  my  convention  is  not  a  little  too  hard 
and  too  much  in  the  style  of  those  decadent  curiosities, 
poems  without  the  letter  E,  poems  going  with  the  alpha- 
bet and  the  like.  And  yet  the  idea,  if  rightly  understood 
and  treated  as  a  convention  always  and  not  as  an  abstract 
principle,  should  not  so  much  hamper  one  as  it  seems  to 
do.  The  idea  is  not,  of  course,  to  put  in  nothing  but  what 
wcfuld  naturally  have  been  noted  and  remembered  and 
handed  down,  but  not  to  put  in  anything  that  would  make 
a  person  stop  and  say — how  could  this  be  known  ?  With- 
out doubt  it  has  the  advantage  of  making  one  rely  on  the 
essential  interest  of  a  situation  and  not  cocker  up  and 
validify  feeble  intrigue  with  incidental  fine  writing  and 
scenery,  and  pyrotechnic  exhibitions  of  inappropriate  clev- 
erness and  sensibility.  I  remember  Bob  once  saying  to 
me  that  the  quadrangle  of  Edinburgh  University  was  a 
good  thing  and  our  having  a  talk  as  to  how  it  could  be 
employed  in  different  arts.  1  then  stated  that  the  different 
doors  and  staircases  ought  to  be  brought  before  a  reader  of 
a  story  not  by  mere  recapitulation  but  by  the  use  of  them, 
by  the  descent  of  different  people  one  after  the  other  by 
each  of  them.  And  that  the  grand  feature  of  shadow  and 
the  light  of  the  one  lamp  in  the  corner  should  also  be  in- 
troduced only  as  they  enabled  people  in  the  story  to  see 
one  another  or  prevented  them .  And  finally  that  whatever 
could  not  thus  be  worked  into  the  evolution  of  the  action 
had  no  right  to  be  commemorated  at  all.  After  all,  it  is  a 
story  you  are  telling ;  not  a  place  you  are  to  describe ;  and 
everything  that  does  not  attach  itself  to  the  story  is  out 
of  place. 

55 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  This  is  a  lecture,  not  a  letter,  and  it  seems  rather  like 
*  ^^  sending  coals  to  Newcastle  to  write  a  lecture  to  a  subsi- 
dised professor.  I  hope  you  have  seen  Bob  by  this  time. 
I  know  he  is  anxious  to  meet  you  and  I  am  in  great 
anxiety  to  know  what  you  think  of  his  prospects— frankly, 
of  course :  as  for  his  person,  I  don't  care  a  damn  what 
you  think  of  it:  I  am  case-hardened  in  that  matter. 

I  wrote  a  French  note  to  Madame  Zassetsky  the  other 
day,  and  there  were  no  errors  in  it.  The  complete  Gaul, 
as  you  may  see.  —  Ever  yours, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton],  Monday,  January  26th,  1874, 
MY  DEAR  FATHER,  —  Heh !  Heh!  business  letter  finished. 
Receipt  acknowledged  without  much  ado,  and  I  think  with 
a  certain  commercial  decision  and  brevity.    The  signature 
is  good  but  not  original. 

I  should  rather  think  I  had  lost  my  heart  to  the  wee 
princess.  Her  mother  demanded  the  other  day  **A  quand 
les  noces?^*  which  Mrs.  Stevenson  will  translate  for  you 
in  case  you  don't  see  it  yourself. 

I  had  a  political  quarrel  last  night  with  the  American ; 
it  was  a  real  quarrel  for  about  two  minutes ;  we  relieved 
our  feelings  and  separated ;  but  a  mutual  feeling  of  shame 
led  us  to  a  most  moving  reconciliation,  in  which  the  Ameri- 
can vowed  he  would  shed  his  best  blood  for  England.  In 
looking  back  up)on  the  interview,  I  feel  that  I  have  learned 
something ;  I  scarcely  appreciated  how  badly  England  had 
behaved,  and  how  well  she  deserves  the  hatred  the  Ameri- 

56 


STUDENT  DAYS 

cans  bear  her.     It  would  have  made  you  laugh  if  you     1874 
could  have  been  present  and  seen  your  unpatriotic  son  ^^'  ^^ 
thundering  anathemas  in  the  moonlight  against  all  those 
that  were  not  the  friend  of  England .    Johnson  being  nearly 
as  nervous  as  I,  we  were  both  very  ill  after  it,  which 
added  a  further  pathos  to  the  reconciliation. 

There  is  no  good  in  sending  this  off  to-day,  as  I  have 
sent  another  letter  this  morning  already. 

O,  a  remark  of  the  Princess's  amused  me  the  other  day. 
Somebody  wanted  to  give  Nelitchka  garlic  as  a  medicine. 
*'Quoi?  Une  petite  amour  comme  ga,  qu'on  ne  pourrait 
pas  baiser?    II  n'y  a  pas  de  sens  en  celaV^ 

I  am  reading  a  lot  of  French  histories  just  now,  and  the 
spelling  keeps  one  in  a  good  humour  all  day  long — I  mean 
the  spelling  of  English  names. — Your  affectionate  son, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton,  January  2g,  18^4],  Thursday. 

Marot  vol.  i  arrived.  The  post  has  been  at  its  old 
games.  A  letter  of  the  31st  and  one  of  the  2nd  arrive  at 
the  same  moment. 

I  have  had  a  great  pleasure.  Mrs.  Andrews  had  a  book 
of  Scotch  airs,  which  I  brought  over  here,  and  set  Ma- 
dame Z.  to  work  upon  them.  They  are  so  like  Russian 
airs  that  they  cannot  contain  their  astonishment.  I  was 
quite  out  of  my  mind  with  delight.  **  The  Flowers  of  the 
Forest"  — **Auld  Lang  Syne"  — ** Scots  wha  hae"  — 
'* Wandering  Willie"  — ** Jock  0'  Hazeldean "  —  " My 
Boy  Tammie,"  which  my  father  whistles  so  often  —  I 

57 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1*74  had  no  conception  how  much  1  loved  them.  The  air 
^^'  ^^  which  pleased  Madame  Zassetsky  the  most  was  **Hey, 
Johnnie  Cope,  are  ye  waukin  yet?*'  It  is  certainly  no 
end .  And  I  was  so  proud  that  they  were  appreciated .  N  o 
triumph  of  my  own,  I  am  sure,  could  ever  give  me  such 
vainglorious  satisfaction.  You  remember,  perhaps,  how 
conceited  I  was  to  find  **  Auld  Lang  Syne'*  popular  in  its 
German  dress ;  but  even  that  was  nothing  to  the  pleasure 
I  had  yesterday  at  the  success  of  our  dear  airs. 

The  edition  is  called  **  The  Songs  of  Scotland  without 
Words  for  the  Pianoforte j''  edited  by  J.  T.  Surrenne, 
published  by  Wood  in  George  Street.  As  these  people 
have  been  so  kind  to  me,  1  wish  you  would  get  a  copy  of 
this  and  send  it  out.  If  that  should  be  too  dear,  or  any- 
thing, Mr.  Mowbray  would  be  able  to  tell  you  what  is  the 
best  substitute,  would  he  not  ?  This  I  really  would  like 
you  to  do,  as  Madame  proposes  to  hire  a  copyist  to  copy 
those  she  likes,  and  so  it  is  evident  she  wants  them. 
Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

TO  Thomas  Stevenson 

With  reference  to  the  political  allusions  in  the  following  it  will  be 
remembered  that  this  was  the  date  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  dissolution,  fol- 
lowed by  his  defeat  at  the  polls  notwithstanding  his  declared  intention 
of  abolishing  the  income-tax. 

[Menton],  February  ist,  1874, 
I  AM  so  sorry  to  hear  of  poor  Mr.  M.'s  death.  He  was 
really  so  amiable  and  kind  that  no  one  could  help  liking 
him,  and  carrying  away  a  pleasant  recollection  of  his  sim- 
ple, happy  ways.  1  hope  you  will  communicate  to  all  the 
family  how  much  1  feel  with  them. 

58 


STUDENT  DAYS 

Madame  Zassetsky  is  Nelitchka's  mamma.    They  have    1874 
both  husbands,  and  they  are  in  Russia,  and  the  ladies  are  ^^'  ^^ 
both  here  for  their  health.     They  make  it  very  pleasant 
for  me  here.     To-day  we  all  went  a  drive  to  the  Cap 
Martin,  and  the  Cap  was  adorable  in  the  splendid  sunshine. 

1  read  J.  H.  A.  Macdonald's  speech  with  interest;  his 
sentiments  are  quite  good,  I  think.  I  would  support  him 
against  M'Laren  at  once.  What  has  disgusted  me  most 
as  yet  about  this  election  is  the  detestable  proposal  to  do 
away  with  the  income  tax.  Is  there  no  shame  about  the 
easy  classes  ?  Will  those  who  have  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  thousandths  of  the  advantage  of  our  society, 
never  consent  to  pay  a  single  tax  unless  it  is  to  be  paid 
also  by  those  who  have  to  bear  the  burthen  and  heat  of 
the  day,  with  almost  none  of  the  reward  ?  And  the  self- 
ishness here  is  detestable,  because  it  is  so  deliberate. 
A  man  may  not  feel  poverty  very  keenly  and  may  live  a 
quiet  self -pleasing  life  in  pure  thoughtlessness ;  but  it  is 
quite  another  matter  when  he  knows  thoroughly  what  the 
issues  are,  and  yet  wails  pitiably  because  he  is  asked  to 
pay  a  little  more,  even  if  it  does  fall  hardly  sometimes, 
than  those  who  get  almost  none  of  the  benefit.  It  is  like 
the  healthy  child  crying  because  they  do  not  give  him  a 
goody,  as  they  have  given  to  his  sick  brother  to  take  away 
the  taste  of  the  dose.  1  have  not  expressed  myself  clearly ; 
but  for  all  that,  you  ought  to  understand,  I  think. 

Friday,  February  6th, — The  wine  has  arrived,  and  a 
dozen  of  it  has  been  transferred  to  me ;  it  is  much  better 
than  Follet^'s  stuff.  We  had  a  masquerade  last  night  at 
the  Villa  Marina ;  Nellie  in  a  little  red  satin  cap,  in  a  red 
satin  suit  of  boy's  clothes,  with  a  funny  little  black  tail  that 

59 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  stuck  out  behind  her,  and  wagged  as  she  danced  about 
^  the  room,  and  gave  her  a  look  of  Puss  in  Boots ;  Pella  as 
a  contadina;  Monsieur  Robinet  as  an  old  woman,  and 
Mademoiselle  as  an  old  lady  with  blue  spectacles. 

Yesterday  we  had  a  visit  from  one  of  whom  I  had  often 
heard  from  Mrs.  Sellar — Andrew  Lang.  He  is  good-look- 
ing, delicate,  Oxfordish,  etc. 

My  cloak  is  the  most  admirable  of  all  garments.  For 
warmth,  unequalled ;  for  a  sort  of  pensive,  Roman  state- 
liness,  sometimes  warming  into  Romantic  guitar  ism,  it  is 
simply  without  concurrent;  it  starts  alone.  If  you  could 
see  me  in  my  cloak,  it  would  impress  you.  I  am  hugely 
better,  I  think :  I  stood  the  cold  these  last  few  days  with- 
out trouble,  instead  of  taking  to  bed,  as  I  did  at  Monte 
Carlo.     I  hope  you  are  going  to  send  the  Scotch  music. 

I  am  stupid  at  letter-writing  again ;  I  don't  know  why. 
I  hope  it  may  not  be  permanent;  in  the  meantime,  you 
must  take  what  you  can  get  and  be  hopeful.  The  Russian 
ladies  are  as  kind  and  nice  as  ever. —  Ever  your  affectionate 
son,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  February  6,  1874],  Friday. 
Last  night  we  had  a  masquerade  at  the  Villa  Marina. 
Pella  was  dressed  as  a  contadina  and  looked  beautiful; 
and  little  Nellie,  in  red  satin  cap  and  wonderful  red  satin 
jacket  and  little  breeches  as  of  a  nondescript  impossible 
boy ;  to  which  Madame  Garschine  had  slily  added  a  little 
black  tail  that  wagged  comically  behind  her  as  she  danced 
about  the  room,  and  got  deliciously  tilted  up  over  the  mid- 
dle bar  of  the  back  of  her  chair  as  she  sat  at  tea,  with  an 

60 


STUDENT  DAYS 

irresistible  suggestion  of  Puss  in  Boots — well,  Nellie  thus  1874 
masqueraded  (to  get  back  to  my  sentence  again)  was  all  ^  '  ^^ 
that  I  could  have  imagined.  She  held  herself  so  straight 
and  stalwart,  and  had  such  infinitesimal  dignity  of  car- 
riage ;  and  then  her  big  baby  face,  already  quite  definitely 
marked  with  her  sex,  came  in  so  funnily  atop  that  she  got 
clear  away  from  all  my  power  of  similes  and  resembled 
nothing  in  the  world  but  Nellie  in  masquerade.  Then 
there  was  Robinet  in  a  white  nightgown,  old  woman's  cap 
{mutch f  in  my  vernacular),  snuff-box  and  crutch  doubled 
up  and  yet  leaping  and  gyrating  about  the  floor  with  in- 
credible agility;  and  lastly.  Mademoiselle  in  a  sort  of 
elderly  walking-dress  and  with  blue  spectacles.  And  all 
this  incongruous  impossible  world  went  tumbling  and 
dancing  and  going  hand  in  hand,  in  flying  circles  to  the 
music;  until  it  was  enough  to  make  one  forget  one  was 
in  this  wicked  world,  with  Conservative  majorities  and 
Presidents  MacMahon  and  all  other  abominations  about 
one. 

Also  last  night  will  be  memorable  to  me  for  another 
reason,  Madame  Zassetsky  having  given  me  a  light  as  to 
my  own  intellect.  They  were  talking  about  things  in 
history  remaining  in  their  minds  because  they  had  assisted 
them  to  generalisations.  And  I  began  to  explain  how 
things  remained  in  my  mind  yet  more  vividly  for  no  rea- 
son at  all.  She  got  interested  and  made  me  give  her  sev- 
eral examples;  then  she  said,  with  her  little  falsetto  of 
discovery,  **Mais  c'est  que  vous  etes  tout  simplement  en- 
fant!"  This  mot  1  have  reflected  on  at  leisure  and  there 
is  some  truth  in  it.  Long  may  I  be  so.  Yesterday  too  I 
finished  Ordered  South  and  at  last  had  some  pleasure  and 
contentment  with  it.     S.  C.  has  sent  it  off  to  Macmillan's 

61 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874    this  morning  and  1  hope  it  may  be  accepted ;  1  don*t  care 
^^*  ^^  whether  it  is  or  no  except  for  the  all  important  lucre ;  the 
end  of  it  is  good,  whether  the  able-editor  sees  it  or  no. 
Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton],  February  22nd,  1874. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER,  —  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  better 
again :  nobody  can  expect  to  be  quite  well  in  February, 
that  is  the  only  consolation  I  can  offer  you. 

Madame  Garschine  is  ill,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  and  was 
confined  to  bed  all  yesterday,  which  made  a  great  difference 
to  our  little  society.  A  propos  of  which,  what  keeps  me 
here  is  just  precisely  the  said  society.  These  people  are  so 
nice  and  kind  and  intelligent,  and  then  as  I  shall  never  see 
them  any  more  I  have  a  disagreeable  feeling  about  making 
the  move.  With  ordinary  people  in  England,  you  have 
more  or  less  chance  of  re-encountering  one  another;  at 
least  you  may  see  their  death  in  the  papers;  but  with 
these  people,  they  die  for  me  and  1  die  for  them  when  we 
separate. 

Andrew  Lang,  O  you  of  little  comprehension,  called  on 
Colvin. 

You  had  not  told  me  before  about  the  fatuous  person 
who  thought  Roads  like  Ruskin  —surely  the  vaguest  of 
contemporaneous  humanity.  Again  my  letter  writing  is 
of  an  enfeebled  sort.  — Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


STUDENT  DAYS 


TO  MRS.  THOMAS  Stevenson 

[Menton],  March  ist,  1874. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER,— The  weather  is  again  beautiful, 
soft,  warm,  cloudy  and  soft  again,  in  provincial  sense. 
Very  interesting,  I  find  Robertson ;  and  Dugald  Stewart's 
life  of  him  a  source  of  unquenchable  laughter.  Dugald 
Stewart  is  not  much  better  than  McCrie,  and  puts  me 
much  in  mind  of  him.  By  the  way,  I  want  my  father  to 
find  out  whether  any  more  of  Knox's  Works  was  ever 
issued  than  the  five  volumes,  as  I  have  them.  There  are 
some  letters  that  I  am  very  anxious  to  see,  not  printed 
in  any  of  the  five,  and  perhaps  still  in  MS. 

i  suppose  you  are  now  home  again  in  Auld  Reekie :  that 
abode  of  bliss  does  not  much  attract  me  yet  a  bit. 

Colvin  leaves  at  the  end  of  this  week,  I  fancy. 

How  badly  yours  sincerely  writes.  O !  Madame  Zasset- 
sky  has  a  theory  that  Dumbarton  Drums  is  an  epitome  of 
my  character  and  talents.  She  plays  it,  and  goes  into 
ecstasies  over  it,  taking  everybody  to  witness  that  each 
note,  as  she  plays  it,  is  the  moral  of  Berecchino.  Berec- 
chino  is  my  stereotype  name  in  the  world  now.  I  am 
announced  as  M.  Berecchino;  a  German  hand-maiden 
came  to  the  hotel,  the  other  night,  asking  for  M.  Berec- 
chino; said  hand-maiden  supposing  in  good  faith  that 
sich  was  my  name. 

Your  letter  come.  O,  I  am  all  right  now  about  the  part- 
ing, because  it  will  not  be  death,  as  we  are  to  write.  Of 
course  the  correspondence  will  drop  off :  but  that 's  no 
odds,  it  breaks  the  back  of  the  trouble.  —  Ever  your  affec- 
tionate son,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

63 


1874 
xrc.  23 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1874 

^'^'  ^^  TO  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton],  Mondav,  March  pth,  18^4. 
We  have  all  been  getting  photographed  and  the  proofs 
are  to  be  seen  to-day.  How  they  will  look  I  know  not. 
Madame  Zassetsky  arranged  me  for  mine,  and  then  said 
to  the  photographer:  "  Oest  mon  fils.  II  vient  d' avoir 
dix-neuf  ans,  II  est  toutfier  de  sa  moustache.  Tdchez  de 
la  faire  parattre,^^  and  then  bolted  leaving  me  solemnly 
alone  with  the  artist.  The  artist  was  quite  serious,  and 
explained  that  he  would  try  to  **faire  ressortirce  qiieveut 
Madame  la  Princesse"  to  the  best  of  his  ability ;  he  bowed 
very  much  to  me,  after  this,  in  quality  of  Prince  you  see. 
I  bowed  in  return  and  handled  the  flap  of  my  cloak  after 
the  most  princely  fashion  1  could  command. — Ever  your 
affectionate  son,  R.  L.  S. 


To  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

[Menton],  March  20,  1874, 
I.  My  Cloak, — An  exception  occurs  to  me  to  the  frugal- 
ity described  a  letter  (or  may  be  two)  ago ;  my  cloak ;  it 
would  certainly  have  been  possible  to  have  got  something 
less  expensive ;  still  it  is  a  fine  thought  for  absent  parents 
that  their  son  possesses  simply  THE  GREATEST  vestment 
in  Mentone.  It  is  great  in  size,  and  unspeakably  great  in 
design;  quk  raiment,  it  has  not  its  equal. 


III.  About  Spain.— ^e\\,  1  don't  know  about  w^  and 
Spain.     I  am  certainly  in  no  humour  and  in  no  state  of 

64 


STUDENT  DAYS 

health  for  voyages  and  travels.  Towards  the  end  of  May  1874 
(see  end),  up  to  which  time  I  seem  to  see  my  plans,  I  ^^'  ^^ 
might  be  up  to  it,  or  I  might  not ;  I  think  not  myself.  I 
have  given  up  all  idea  of  going  on  to  Italy,  though  it  seems 
a  pity  when  one  is  so  near ;  and  Spain  seems  to  me  in  the 
same  category.  But  for  all  that,  it  need  not  interfere  with 
your  voyage  thither:  I  would  not  lose  the  chance,  if  I 
wanted. 

IV.  Money.  —  I  am  much  obliged.  That  makes  ;^i8o 
now.  This  money  irks  me,  one  feels  it  more  than  when 
living  at  home.  However,  if  I  have  health,  I  am  in  a  fair 
way  to  make  a  bit  of  a  livelihood  for  myself.  Now  please 
don't  take  this  up  wrong ;  don't  suppose  I  am  thinking  of 
the  transaction  between  you  and  me  ;  I  think  of  the  trans- 
action between  me  and  mankind.  I  think  of  all  this  money 
wasted  in  keeping  up  a  structure  that  may  never  be  worth 
it — all  this  good  money  sent  after  bad.  I  shall  be  seriously 
angry  if  you  take  me  up  wrong. 

V.  Roads. — The  familiar  false  concord  is  not  certainly  a 
form  of  colloquialism  that  I  should  feel  inclined  to  encour- 
age. It  is  very  odd  ;  I  wrote  it  very  carefully,  and  you 
seem  to  have  read  it  very  carefully,  and  yet  none  of  us 
found  it  out.    The  Deuce  is  in  it. 

VI.  Russian  Prince.  —  A  cousin  of  these  ladies  is  come 
to  stay  with  them  —  Prince  Leon  Galitzin.  He  is  the  image 
of — whom? — guess  now — do  you  give  it  up.? — Hill- 
house. 

VII.  Miscellaneous.  —  I  send  you  a  pikter  of  me  in  the 
cloak.  1  think  it  is  like  a  hunchback.  The  moustache  is 
clearly  visible  to  the  naked  eye — O  diable !  what  do  I 
hear  in  my  lug  ?  A  mosquito — the  first  of  the  season. 
Bad  luck  to  him  ! 

65 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

i»74        Goodnicht  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a*.     I  am  going  to 
^^'  ^^  bed.  —  Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 

Note  to  III, — I  had  counted  on  being  back  at  Embro' 
by  the  last  week  or  so  of  May. 


TO  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Menton,  April,  [8y4l  Monday. 

Mv  last  night  at  Mentone.  I  cannot  tell  how  strange 
and  sad  I  feel.  I  leave  behind  me  a  dear  friend  whom  I 
have  but  little  hope  of  seeing  again  between  the  eyes. 

To-day,  I  hadn't  arranged  all  my  plans  till  five  o'clock ; 
1  hired  a  poor  old  cabman,  whose  uncomfortable  vehicle 
and  sorry  horse  made  every  one  despise  him,  and  set  off 
to  get  money  and  say  farewells.  It  was  a  dark  misty 
evening ;  the  mist  was  down  over  all  the  hills ;  the  peach- 
trees  in  beautiful  pink  bloom.  Arranged  my  plans;  that 
merits  a  word  by  the  way  if  I  can  be  bothered.  I  have 
half  arranged  to  go  to  Gottingen  in  summer  to  a  course  of 
lectures.  Galitzin  is  responsible  for  this.  He  tells  me  the 
professor  is  to  law  what  Darwin  has  been  to  Natural 
History,  and  I  should  like  to  understand  Roman  Law  and 
a  knowledge  of  law  is  so  necessary  for  all  I  hope  to  do. 

My  poor  old  cabman;  his  one  horse  made  me  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  too  late  for  dinner,  but  I  had  not  the 
heart  to  discharge  him  and  take  another.  Poor  soul,  he 
was  so  pleased  with  his  pourboire,  I  have  made  Madame 
Zassetsky  promise  to  employ  him  often;  so  he  will  be 
something  the  better  for  me,  little  as  he  will  know  it. 

I  have  read  Ordered  South;  it  is  pretty  decent  I  think, 

66 


STUDENT  DAYS 

but  poor,  stiff,  limping  stuff  at  best — not  half  so  well     1874 
straightened  up  as  Roads.     However  the  stuff  is  good.        ^^'  ^^ 

God  help  us  all,  this  is  a  rough  world :  address  Hotel 
St.  Romain,  rue  St.  Roch,  Paris.  I  draw  the  line:  a  chap- 
ter finished.  —  Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

The  line. 

That  bit  of  childishness  has  made  me  laugh,  do  you 
blame  me  ? 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Written  in  Paris  on  his  way  home  to  Edinburgh.  Some  of  our  talk 
at  Mentone  had  run  on  the  scheme  of  a  spectacle  play  on  the  story  of 
the  burning  of  the  temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus  by  Herostratus,  the  type 
of  insane  vanity  in  excehis. 

[Hotel  St.  Romain,  Paris, 
end  of  April,  18^4.] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  I  am  a  great  deal  better,  but  still 
have  to  take  care.  I  have  got  quite  a  lot  of  Victor  Hugo 
done ;  and  not  I  think  so  badly :  pitching  into  this  work 
has  straightened  me  up  a  good  deal.  It  is  the  devil's  own 
weather  but  that  is  a  trifle.  I  must  know  when  Cornhill 
must  see  it.  I  can  send  some  of  it  in  a  week  easily,  but  I 
still  have  to  read  The  Laughing  Man,^  and  I  mean  to  wait 
until  I  get  to  London  and  have  the  loan  of  that  from  you. 
If  I  buy  anything  more  this  production  will  not  pay  itself. 
The  first  part  is  not  too  well  written,  though  it  has  good 
stuff  in  it. 

My  people  have  made  no  objection  to  my  going  to  Got- 
tingen ;  but  my  body  has  made  I  think  very  strong  objec- 

^VHomrm  qui  rit, 
67 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  tions.  And  you  know  if  it  is  cold  here,  it  must  be  colder 
*^'  ^^  there.  It  is  a  sore  pity ;  that  was  a  great  chance  for  me, 
and  it  is  gone.  I  know  very  well  that  between  Galitzen 
and  this  swell  professor  I  should  have  become  a  good  spe- 
cialist in  law  and  how  that  would  have  changed  and  bet- 
tered all  my  work  it  is  easy  to  see;  however  1  must  just 
be  content  to  live  as  I  have  begun,  an  ignorant,  chic-y 
penny-a-liner.    May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul ! 

Going  home  not  very  well  is  an  astonishing  good  hold 
for  me.    1  shall  simply  be  a  prince. 

Have  you  had  any  thought  about  Diana  of  the  Ephe- 
sians  ?  I  will  straighten  up  a  play  for  you,  but  it  may  take 
years.  A  play  is  a  thing  just  like  a  story,  it  begins  to  dis- 
engage itself  and  then  unrolls  gradually  in  block.  It  will 
disengage  itself  some  day  for  me  and  then  I  will  send  you 
the  nugget  and  you  will  see  if  you  can  make  anything  out 
of  it.— Ever  yours,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

Mr.  John  Morley  had  asked  for  a  notice  by  R.  L.  S.  lor  the  Fort- 
nightly Review,  which  he  was  then  editing,  of  Lord  Lytton's  newly 
published  volume,  Fables  in  Song. 

Swanston,  Lothianburn,  Edinburgh 
[May,  1874], 
All  right.  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do.  Before  I  could 
answer  I  had  to  see  the  book ;  and  my  good  father,  after 
trying  at  all  our  libraries,  bought  it  for  me.  I  like  the 
book;  that  is  some  of  it  and  I  Ml  try  to  lick  up  four  or 
five  pages  for  the  Fortnightly. 

It  is  still  as  cold  as  cold,  hereaway.  And  the  Spring 
hammering  away  at  the  New  Year  in  despite.     Poor 

68 


STUDENT  DAYS 

Spring,  scattering  flowers  with  red  hands  and  preparing    1874 
for  Summer's  triumphs  all  in  a  shudder  herself.    Health  still  ^  '  ^^ 
good,  and  the  humour  for  work  enduring. 

Jenkin  wrote  to  say  he  would  second  me  in  such  a  kind 
little  notelet.  I  shall  go  in  for  it  (the  Savile  I  mean) 
whether  Victor  Hugo  is  accepted  or  not,  being  now  a  man 
of  means.  Have  I  told  you  by  the  way  that  I  have  now 
an  income  of  ;^84,  or  as  I  prefer  to  put  it  for  dignity's  sake, 
two  thousand  one  hundred  francs,  a  year. 

In  lively  hope  of  better  weather  and  your  arrival  here- 
after, I  remain  yours  ever,  R.  L.  S. 


TO  MRS.  SITWELL 

SWANSTON,  Friday,  May,  1874. 

**MY  dear  Stevenson  how  do  you  do.?  do  you  annoy- 
ing yourself  or  no  ?  when  we  go  to  the  Olivses  it  allways 
rememberse  us  you.  Nelly  and  my  aunt  went  away. 
And  when  the  organ  come  and  play  the  Soldaten  it  mak 
us  think  of  Nelly.  It  is  so  sad !  allmoste  went  away.  I 
make  my  baths;  and  then  we  go  to  Franzensbad ;  will  you 
come  to  see  us.?  '* 

There  is  Pella's  letter  fac-simile,  punctuation,  spelling 
and  all.  Mme.  Garschine's  was  rather  sad  and  gave  me 
the  blues  a  bit;  I  think  it  very  likely  I  may  run  over  to 
Franzensbad  for  a  week  or  so  this  autumn,  if  I  am  wanted 
that  is  to  say :  I  shall  be  able  to  afford  it  easily. 

I  have  got  on  rather  better  with  Fables;  perhaps  it  won't 
be  a  failure,  though  I  fear.  To-day  the  sun  shone  brightly 
although  the  wind  was  cold:  I  was  up  the  hill  a  good 
time.     It  is  very  solemn  to  see  the  top  of  one  hill  stead- 

69 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  fastly  regarding  you  over  the  shoulder  of  another :  I  never 
*  ^^  before  to-day  fully  realised  the  haunting  of  such  a  gigan- 
tic face,  as  it  peers  over  into  a  valley  and  seems  to  com- 
mand all  corners.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  the  shepherd 
about  foreign  lands,  and  sheep.  A  Russian  had  once  been 
on  the  farm  as  a  pupil ;  he  told  me  that  he  had  the  utmost 
pity  for  the  Russian's  capacities,  since  (dictionary  and  all)  he 
had  never  managed  to  understand  him ;  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  my  friend  the  shepherd  spoke  Scotch  of  the 
broadest  and  often  enough  employs  words  which  I  do  not 
understand  myself.  R.  L.  S. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

Enclosing  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen's  letter  accepting  the  article  on  Victor 
Hugo:  the  first  of  Stevenson's  many  contributions  to  the  Cornhill 
Magazine. 

[Edinburgh,  May,  18^4,] 
MY  DEAR  colvin,  — I  send  you  L.  Stephen's   letter 
which  is  certainly  very  kind  and  jolly  to  get.^     I  wrote 
some  stuff  about  Lord  Lytton,  but  I  had  not  the  heart  to 

iThis  letter,  accepting  the  first  contribution  of  R.  L.  S.,  has  by  an 
accident  been  preserved,  and  is  so  interesting,  both  for  its  occasion  and 
for  the  light  it  throws  on  the  writer's  care  and  kindness  as  an  editor, 
that  by  permission  of  his  representatives  I  here  print  it.  '93  stands,  of 
course,  for  the  novel  Quatre-vingt  Trei^e. 

15  Waterloo  Place,  S.  W.,  i^l^J'j4. 
DEAR  SIR,  —  I  have  read  with  great  interest  your  article  on  Victor 
Hugo  and  also  that  which  appeared  in  the  last  number  of  Macmiltan. 
I  shall  be  happy  to  accept  Hugo  and  if  I  have  been  rather  long  in  an- 
swering you,  it  is  only  because  1  wished  to  give  a  second  reading  to  the 
article,  and  have  lately  been  very  much  interrupted. 

I  will  now  venture  to  make  a  few  remarks,  and  by  way  of  preface 
I  must  say  that  I  do  not  criticise  you  because  I  take  a  low  view  of  your 

70 


STUDENT  DAYS 

submit  it  to  you.  I  sent  it  direct  to  Morley,  with  a  Spar-  1874 
tan  billet.  God  knows  it  is  bad  enough ;  but  it  cost  me  "*  *  ^^ 
labour  incredible.  I  was  so  out  of  the  vein,  it  would  have 
made  you  weep  to  see  me  digging  the  rubbish  out  of  my 
seven  wits  with  groanings  unutterable.  I  certainly  mean 
to  come  to  London,  and  likely  before  long  if  all  goes  well ; 
so  on  that  ground,  I  cannot  force  you  to  come  to  Scotland. 
Still,  the  weather  is  now  warm  and  jolty,  and  of  course  it 
would  not  be  expensive  to  live  here  so  long  as  that  did 
not  bore  you.  If  you  could  see  the  hills  out  of  my  win- 
dow to-night,  you  would  start  incontinent.     However  do 

powers:  but  for  the  very  contrary  reason,  I  think  very  highly  of  the 
promise  shown  in  your  writings  and  therefore  think  it  worth  while  to 
write  more  fully  than  I  can  often  to  contributors.  Nor  do  1  set  my- 
self up  as  a  judge —  I  am  very  sensible  of  my  own  failings  in  the  criti- 
cal department  and  merely  submit  what  has  occurred  to  me  for  your 
coHsideratiop 

1  fully  agree  with  the  greatest  portion  of  your  opinions  and  think 
them  very  favourably  expressed.  The  following  points  struck  me  as 
doubtful  when  I  read  and  may  perhaps  be  worth  notice. 

First,  you  seem  to  make  the  distinction  between  dramatic  and  novel- 
istic  art  coincide  with  the  distinction  between  romantic  and  18th 
century.  This  strikes  me  as  doubtful,  as  at  least  to  require  qualifica- 
tion. To  my  mind  Hugo  is  far  more  dramatic  in  spirit  than  Fielding, 
though  his  method  involves  (as  you  show  exceedingly  well)  a  use  of 
scenery  and  background  which  would  hardly  be  admissible  in  drama. 
1  am  not  able  —  1  fairly  confess  —  to  define  the  dramatic  element  in 
Hugo  or  to  say  why  I  think  it  absent  from  Fielding  and  Richardson. 
Yet  surely  Hugo's  own  dramas  are  a  sufficient  proof  that  a  drama  may  be 
romantic  as  well  as  a  novel :  though,  of  course,  the  pressure  of  the  great 
moral  forces,  etc.,  must  be  indicated  by  different  means.  The  question 
is  rather  a  curious  one  and  too  wide  to  discuss  in  a  letter.  I  merely 
suggest  what  seems  to  me  to  be  an  obvious  criticism  on  your  argument. 

Secondly,  you  speak  very  sensibly  of  the  melodramatic  and  claptrap 
element  in  Hugo.     1  confess  that  it  seems  to  me  to  go  deeper  into  his 

71 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874    as  you  will,  and  if  the  mountain  will  not  come  to  Mahomet 
^^'  ^^  Mahomet  will  come  to  the  mountain  in  due  time,  Mahomet 
being  me  and  the  mountain  you,  Q.E.D.,  F.R.S.  —  Ever 
yours,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[SWANSTON,  May,  i8y4]y  Sunday. 

The  white  mist  has  obliterated  the  hills  and  lies  heavily 

round  the  cottage,  as  though  it  were  laying  siege  to  it; 

the  trees  wave  their  branches  in  the  wind  with  a  solemn 

melancholy  manner,  like  people  swaying  themselves  to 

work  than  you  would  apparently  allow.  I  think  it,  for  example,  very 
palpable  even  in  Notre  Dame,  and  I  doubt  the  historical  fidelity, 
though  my  ignorance  of  mediaeval  history  prevents  me  from  putting  my 
finger  on  many  faults.  The  consequence  is  that  in  my  opinion  you  are 
scarcely  just  to  Scott  or  Fielding  as  compared  with  Hugo.  Granting 
fully  his  amazing  force  and  fire,  he  seems  to  me  to  be  deficient  often  in 
that  kind  of  healthy  realism  which  is  so  admirable  in  Scott's  best  work. 
For  example,  though  my  Scotch  blood  (for  I  can  boast  of  some)  may 
prejudice  me  I  am  profoundly  convinced  that  Balfour  of  Burley  would 
have  knocked  M.  Lantenac  into  a  cocked  hat  and  stormed  la  Tourgue 
if  it  had  been  garrisoned  by  19X19  French  spouters  of  platitude  in 
half  the  time  that  Gauvain  and  Cimourdain  took  about  it.  In  fact, 
Balfour  seems  to  me  to  be  flesh  and  blood  and  Gauvain  &  Co.  to  be 
too  often  mere  personified  bombast:  and  therefore  I  fancy  that  Old 
Mortality  will  outlast  '93,  though  Notre  Dame  is  far  better  than 
Quentin  Durward,  and  Les  Mis^rahles,  perhaps,  better  than  any. 
This  is,  of  course,  fair  matter  of  opinion. 

Thirdly,  I  don't  think  that  you  quite  bring  out  your  meaning  in  saying 
that  '93  is  a  decisive  symptom.  I  confess  that  I  don't  quite  see  in  what 
sense  it  decides  precisely  what  question.  A  sentence  or  so  would  clear 
this  up. 

Fourthly,  as  a  matter  of  form,  I  think  (but  I  am  very  doubtful)  that 
it  might  possibly  have  been  better  not  to  go  into  each  novel  in  succes- 

72 


STUDENT  DAYS 

and  fro  in  pain.  I  am  alone  in  the  house,  all  the  world  1874 
being  gone  to  church ;  and  even  in  here  at  the  side  of  the  ^^'  ^^ 
fire,  the  air  clings  about  one  like  a  wet  blanket.  Yet  this 
morning,  when  I  was  just  awake,  I  had  thought  it  was  going 
to  be  a  fine  day.  First,  a  cock  crew,  loudly  and  beauti- 
fully and  often ;  then  followed  a  long  interval  of  silence 
and  darkness,  the  grey  morning  began  to  get  into  my 
room;  and  then  from  the  other  side  of  the  garden,  a  black- 
bird executed  one  long  flourish,  and  in  a  moment  as  if  a 
spring  had  been  touched  or  a  sluice-gate  opened,  the  whole 
garden  just  brimmed  and  ran  over  with  bird-songs. — Ever 
your  faithful  friend,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

sion:  but  to  group  the  substance  of  your  remarks  a  little  differently. 
Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to  alter  the  form,  I  merely  notice  the  point 
as  suggesting  a  point  in  regard  to  any  future  article. 

Many  of  your  criticisms  in  detail  strike  me  as  very  good.  I  was  much 
pleased  by  your  remarks  on  the  storm  in  the  Travailleurs.  There  was 
another  very  odd  storm,  as  it  struck  me  on  a  hasty  reading,  in  '93, 
where  there  is  mention  of  a  beautiful  summer  evening  and  yet  the  wind 
is  so  high  that  you  can't  hear  the  tocsin.  You  do  justice  also  and  more 
than  justice  to  Hugo's  tenderness  about  children.  That,  I  think,  points 
to  one  great  source  of  his  power. 

It  would  be  curious  to  compare  Hugo  to  a  much  smaller  man,  Chas. 
Reade,  who  is  often  a  kind  of  provincial  or  Daily  Telegraph  Hugo. 
However,  that  would  hardly  do  in  the  Cornbill.  I  shall  send  your 
article  to  the  press  and  hope  to  use  it  in  July.  Any  alterations  can  be 
made  when  the  article  is  in  type,  if  any  are  desirable.  I  cannot  prom- 
ise definitely  in  advance  ;  but  at  any  rate  it  shall  appear  as  soon  as 
may  be. 

Excuse  this  long  rigmarole  and  believe  me  to  be^  yours  very  truly, 

Leslie  Stephen. 

I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you  again.  If  ever  you  come  to  town  you 
will  find  me  at  8  Southwell  Gardens  (close  to  the  Gloucester  Road 
Station  of  the  Underground).  I  am  generally  at  home  except  from  3 
to  5. 

73 


1874 

JET.   23 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

For  a  part  of  June  Stevenson  had  come  south,  spending  most  of  his 
time  in  lodgings  with  me  at  Hampstead  (where  he  got  the  idea  for 
part  of  his  essay,  Notes  on  the  Movements  of  Young  Children^  and 
making  his  first  appearance  at  the  Savile  Club.  Trouble  awaited  him 
after  his  return. 

[SWANSTON,  yM«<?,  i^74iy  Wednesday, 
News  reaches  me  that  Bob  is  laid  down  with  diphtheria; 
and  you  know  what  that  means. 

Night,  —  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  have  on  the  whole  a 
good  account  of  Bob  and  I  do  hope  he  may  pull  through  in 
spite  of  all.  I  went  down  and  saw  the  doctor ;  but  it  is 
not  thought  right  that  I  should  go  in  to  see  him  in  case  of 
contagion  :  you  know  it  is  a  very  contagious  malady. 

Thursday. — It  is  curious  how  calm  I  am  in  such  a  case. 
I  wait  in  perfect  composure  for  farther  news;  I  can  do 
nothing ;  why  should  I  disturb  myself  }  And  yet  if  things 
go  wrong  1  shall  be  in  a  fine  way  I  can  tell  you. 

How  curiously  we  are  built  up  into  our  false  positions. 
The  other  day,  having  toothache  and  the  black  dog  on 
my  back  generally,  I  was  rude  to  one  of  the  servants  at 
the  dinner-table.  And  nothing  of  course  can  be  more  dis- 
gusting than  for  a  man  to  speak  harshly  to  a  young  woman 
who  will  lose  her  place  if  she  speak  back  to  him ;  and  of 
course  I  determined  to  apologise.  Well,  do  you  know,  it 
was  perhaps  four  days  before  1  found  courage  enough,  and 
1  felt  as  red  and  ashamed  as  could  be.  Why  }  because  I 
had  been  rude  ?  not  a  bit  of  it ;  because  I  was  doing  a 
thing  that  would  be  called  ridiculous  in  thus  apologising. 

74 


STUDENT  DAYS 

I  did  not  know  I  had  so  much  respect  of  middle-class  no-     1S74 
tions  before ;  this  is  my  right  hand  which  I  must  cut  off.       *  ^ 
Hold  the  arm  please:  once — twice — thrice:  the  offensive 
member  is  amputated :  let  us  hope  1  shall  never  be  such 
a  cad  any  more  as  to  be  ashamed  of  being  a  gentleman. 

Night. — I  suppose  1  must  have  been  more  affected  than 
I  thought ;  at  least  1  found  1  could  not  work  this  morning 
and  had  to  go  out.  The  whole  garden  was  filled  with  a 
high  westerly  wind,  coming  straight  out  of  the  hills  and 
richly  scented  with  furze — or  whins,  as  we  would  say. 
The  trees  were  all  in  a  tempest  and  roared  like  a  heavy 
surf ;  the  paths  all  strewn  with  fallen  apple-blossom  and 
leaves.  I  got  a  quiet  seat  behind  a  yew  and  went  away 
into  a  meditation.  1  was  very  happy  after  my  own  fash- 
ion, and  whenever  there  came  a  blink  of  sunshine  or  a 
bird  whistled  higher  than  usual,  or  a  little  powder  of  white 
apple-blossom  came  over  the  hedge  and  settled  about  me 
in  the  grass,  I  had  the  gladdest  little  flutter  at  my  heart 
and  stretched  myself  for  very  voluptuousness.  I  wasn't 
altogether  taken  up  with  my  private  pleasures,  however, 
and  had  many  a  look  down  ugly  vistas  in  the  future,  for 
Bob  and  others.  But  we  must  all  be  content  and  brave, 
and  look  eagerly  for  these  little  passages  of  happiness  by 
the  wayside,  and  go  on  afterwards,  savouring  them  under 
the  tongue. 

Friday, — Our  garden  has  grown  beautiful  at  last,  beau- 
tiful with  fresh  foliage  and  daisied  grass.  The  sky  is  still 
cloudy  and  the  day  perhaps  even  a  little  gloomy;  but 
under  this  grey  roof,  in  this  shaded  temperate  light,  how 
delightful  the  new  summer  is. 

75 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  When  I  shall  come  to  London  must  always  be  proble- 
^^'  ^^  matical  like  all  my  movements,  and  of  course  this  sickness 
of  Bob's  makes  it  still  more  uncertain.  If  all  goes  well  I 
may  have  to  go  to  the  country  and  take  care  of  him  in  his 
convalescence.  But  I  shall  come  shortly.  Do  not  hurry 
to  write  me;  I  had  rather  jyou  had  ten  minutes  more  of 
good,  friendly  sleep,  than  I  a  longer  letter;  and  you  know 
I  am  rather  partial  to  your  letters.  Yesterday,  by  the  bye, 
I  received  the  proof  of  l^ictor  Hugo;  it  is  not  nicely  writ- 
ten, but  the  stuff  is  capital,  I  think.  Modesty  is  my  most 
remarkable  quality,  I  may  remark  in  passing. 

i,^.  —  I  was  out,  behind  the  yew  hedge,  reading  the 
Contesse  de  Rudolstadt  when  I  found  my  eyes  grow 
weary,  and  looked  up  from  the  book.  O  the  rest  of  the 
quiet  greens  and  whites,  of  the  daisied  surface!  I  was 
very  peaceful,  but  it  began  to  sprinkle  rain  and  so  I  fain 
to  come  in  for  a  moment  and  chat  with  you.  By  the  way, 
I  must  send  you  Consuelo  ;  you  said  you  had  quite  for- 
gotten it  if  I  remember  aright;  and  surely  a  book  that 
could  divert  me,  when  I  thought  myself  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  grave,  from  the  work  that  I  so  much  desired  and  was 
yet  undble  to  do,  and  from  many  painful  thoughts,  should 
somewhat  support  and  amuse  you  under  all  the  hard 
things  that  may  be  coming  upon  you.  If  you  should  won- 
der why  I  am  writing  to  you  so  voluminously,  know  that 
it  is  because  I  am  not  suffering  myself  to  work,  and  in 
idleness,  as  in  death,  etc.  .  .  . 

Saturday,  — \  have  had  a  very  cruel  day.  I  heard  this 
morning  that  yesterday  Bob  had  been  very  much  worse 
and  I  went  down  to  Portobello  with  all  sorts  of  horrible 

76 


STUDENT  DAYS 

presentiments.  I  was  glad  when  I  turned  the  corner  and  1874 
saw  the  blinds  still  up.  He  was  definitely  better,  if  the  ^^'  *^ 
word  definitely  can  be  used  about  such  a  detestably  insid- 
ious complaint.  I  have  ordered  Consuelo  for  you,  and  you 
should  have  it  soon  this  week;  I  mean  next  week  of 
course ;  I  am  thinking  when  you  will  receive  this  letter, 
not  of  now  when  I  am  writing  it. 

I  am  so  tired  ;  but  I  am  very  hopeful.  All  will  be  well 
some  time,  if  it  be  only  when  we  are  dead.  One  thing  I 
see  so  clearly.  Death  is  the  end  neither  of  joy  nor  sorrow. 
Let  us  pass  into  the  clouds  and  come  up  again  as  grass 
and  flowers;  we  shall  still  be  this  wonderful,  shrinking, 
sentient  matter — we  shall  still  thrill  to  the  sun  and  grow 
relaxed  and  quiet  after  rain,  and  have  all  manner  of  pains 
and  pleasures  that  we  know  not  of  now.  Consciousness, 
and  ganglia,  and  suchlike,  are  after  all  but  theories.  And 
who  knows?  This  God  may  not  be  cruel  when  all  is 
done;  he  may  relent  and  be  good  to  us  a  la  fin  desfins. 
Think  of  how  he  tempers  our  afflictions  to  us,  of  how  ten- 
derly he  mixes  in  bright  joys  with  the  grey  web  of  trouble 
and  care  that  we  call  our  life.  Think  of  how  he  gives, 
who  takes  away.  Out  of  the  bottom  of  the  miry  clay  I 
write  this;  and  I  look  forward  confidently;  I  have  faith 
after  all ;  I  believe,  I  hope,  I  will  not  have  it  reft  from  me ; 
there  is  something  good  behind  it  all,  bitter  and  terrible  as 
it  seems.  The  infinite  majesty  (as  it  will  be  always  in 
regard  to  us  the  bubbles  of  an  hour)  the  infinite  majesty 
must  have  moments,  if  it  were  no  more,  of  greatness; 
must  sometimes  be  touched  with  a  feeling  for  our  infirmi- 
ties, must  sometimes  relent  and  be  clement  to  those  frail 
playthings  that  he  has  made,  and  made  so  bitterly  alive. 
Must  it  not  be  so,  my  dear  friend,  out  of  the  depths  I  cry? 

77 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  I  feel  it,  now  when  I  am  most  painfully  conscious  of  his 
^^*  ^^  cruelty.  He  must  relent.  He  must  reward.  He  must 
give  some  indemnity,  if  it  were  but  in  the  quiet  of  a  daisy, 
tasting  of  the  sun,  and  the  soft  rain  and  the  sweet  shadow 
of  trees,  for  all  the  dire  fever  that  he  makes  us  bear  in  this 
poor  existence.  We  make  too  much  of  this  human  life  of 
ours.  It  may  be  that  two  clods  together,  two  flowers  to- 
gether, two  grown  trees  together  touching  each  other  de- 
liciously  with  their  spread  leaves,  it  may  be  that  these 
dumb  things  have  their  own  priceless  sympathies,  surer 
and  more  untroubled  than  ours. 

1  don't  know  quite  whether  1  have  wandered.  Forgive 
me,  1  feel  as  I  had  relieved  myself ;  so  perhaps  it  may  not 
be  unpleasant  for  you  either.  —  Believe  me,  ever  your 
faithful  friend,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

TO  Mrs.  SrrwELL 

SWANSTON,  Sunday  \June,  i8y4], 
DEAR  FRIEND,— I  fear  to  have  added  something  to  your 
troubles  by  telling  you  of  the  grief  in  which  I  find  myself ; 
but  one  cannot  always  come  to  meet  a  friend  smiling^ 
although  we  should  try  for  the  best  cheer  possible.  All 
to-day  I  have  been  very  weary,  resting  myself  after  the 
trouble  and  fatigue  of  yesterday.  The  day  was  warm 
enough,  but  it  blew  a  whole  gale  of  wind ;  and  the  noise  and 
the  purposeless  rude  violence  of  it  somehow  irritated  and 
depressed  me.  There  was  good  news  however,  though 
the  anxiety  must  still  be  long.  O  peace,  peace,  whither 
are  you  fled  and  where  have  you  carried  my  old  quiet 
humour?  I  am  so  bitter  and  disquiet  and  speak  even 
spitefully  to  people.    And  somehow,  though  I  promise 

78 


STUDENT  DAYS 

myself  amendment,  day  after  day  finds  me  equally  rough     1874 
and  sour  to  those  about  me.     But  this  would  pass  with  ^^'  ^^ 
good  health  and  good  weather;  and  at  bottom  I  am  not 
unhappy ;  the  soil  is  still  good  although  it  bears  thorns;  and 
the  time  will  come  again  for  flowers. 

Wednesday. —  I  got  your  letter  this  morning  and  have  to 
thank  you  so  much  for  it.  Bob  is  much  better ;  and  I  do 
hope  out  of  danger.  To-day  has  been  more  glorious  than 
I  can  tell  you.  It  has  been  the  first  day  of  blue  sky  that 
we  have  had ;  and  it  was  happiness  for  a  week  to  see  the 
clear  bright  outline  of  the  hills  and  the  glory  of  sunlit  foliage 
and  the  darkness  of  green  shadows,  and  the  big  white 
clouds  that  went  voyaging  overhead  deliberately.  My 
two  cousins  from  Portobello  were  here:  and  they  and  I 
and  Maggie  ended  the  afternoon  by  lying  half  an  hour  to- 
gether on  a  shawl.  The  big  cloud  had  all  been  carded  out 
into  a  thin  luminous  white  gauze,  miles  away ;  and  miles 
away  too  seemed  the  little  black  birds  that  passed  between 
this  and  us  as  we  lay  with  faces  upturned.  The  similar- 
ity of  what  we  saw  struck  in  us  a  curious  similarity  of 
mood ;  and  in  consequence  of  the  small  size  of  the  shawl, 
we  all  lay  so  close  that  we  half  pretended,  half  felt,  we 
had  lost  our  individualities  and  had  become  merged  and 
mixed  up  in  a  quadruple  existence.  We  had  the  shadov/ 
of  an  umbrella  over  ourselves,  and  when  any  one  reached 
out  a  brown  hand  into  the  golden  sunlight  overhead  we  all 
feigned  that  we  did  not  know  whose  hand  it  was,  until  at 
last  I  don't  really  think  we  quite  did.  Little  black  insects 
also  passed  over  us  and  in  the  same  half  wanton  manner 
we  pretended  we  could  not  distinguish  them  from  the 
birds.    There  was  a  splendid  sunlit  silence  about  us,  and 

79 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874    as  Katharine  said  the  heavens  seemed  to  be  dropping  oil 
^^'  ^^  on  us,  or  honey-dew — it  was  all  so  bland. 

Thursday  evening. —  I  have  seen  Bob  again,  and  I  was 
charmed  at  his  convalescence.  Le  bon  Dieu  has  been  so 
bon  this  time:  here  's  his  health!  Still  the  danger  is  not 
over  by  a  good  way ;  it  is  so  miserable  a  thing  for  reverses. 

I  hear  the  wind  outside  roaring  among  our  leafy  trees  as 
the  surf  on  some  loud  shore.  The  hill-top  is  whelmed  in 
a  passing  rain-shower  and  the  mist  lies  low  in  the  valleys. 
But  the  night  is  warm  and  in  our  little  sheltered  garden  it 
is  fair  and  pleasant,  and  the  borders  and  hedges  and  ever- 
greens and  boundary  trees  are  all  distinct  in  an  equable 
diffusion  of  light  from  the  buried  moon  and  the  day  not 
altogether  passed  away.  My  dear  friend,  as  1  hear  the 
wind  rise  and  die  away  in  that  tempestuous  world  of  foli- 
age, I  seem  to  be  conscious  of  I  know  not  what  breath  of 
creation.  I  know  what  this  warm  wet  wind  of  the  west 
betokens,  1  know  how  already,  in  this  morning's  sunshine, 
we  could  see  all  the  hills  touched  and  accentuated  with 
little  delicate  golden  patches  of  young  fern ;  how  day  by 
day  the  flowers  thicken  and  the  leaves  unfold ;  how  already 
the  year  is  a- tip- toe  on  the  summit  of  its  finished  youth ; 
and  I  am  glad  and  sad  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart  at  the 
knowledge.  If  you  knew  how  different  I  am  from  what 
I  was  last  year ;  how  the  knowledge  of  you  has  changed 
and  finished  me,  you  would  be  glad  and  sad  also.  —  Ever 
your  faithful  friend,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


STUDENT  DAYS 

1874 
TO  MRS.   SITWELL  ^■'*  ^^ 

The  strain  of  anxiety  recorded  in  the  two  last  letters  had  given  a 
shake  to  Stevenson's  own  health,  and  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  go 
for  a  yachting  tour  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson  in  the  Inner  Hebrides. 

[Edinburgh,  y^w^,  i8y4],  Thursday. 
I  HAVE  been  made  so  miserable  by  Chopin's  Marche 
funtbre.  Try  two  of  Schubert's  songs,  **Ich  ungluckselige 
Atlas''  and  '' Du  schones  Fischermddchen" — they  are 
very  jolly.  I  have  read  aloud  my  death-cycle  from  Walt 
Whitman  this  evening.  I  was  very  much  affected  myself, 
never  so  much  before,  and  it  fetched  the  auditory  consid- 
erable. Reading  these  things  that  I  like  aloud  when  I  am 
painfully  excited  is  the  keenest  artistic  pleasure  I  know. 
It  does  seem  strange  that  these  dependent  arts — singing, 
acting,  and  in  its  small  way  reading  aloud — seem  the  best 
rewarded  of  all  arts.  I  am  sure  it  is  more  exciting  for  me 
to  read  than  it  was  for  W.  W.  to  write;  and  how  much 
more  must  this  be  so  with  singing. 

Friday. — I  am  going  in  the  yacht  on  Wednesday.  I  am 
not  right  yet,  and  1  hope  the  yacht  will  set  me  up.  I  am 
too  tired  to-night  to  make  more  of  it.  Good-bye. —  Ever 
your  faithful  friend,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  June,  1874]^  Friday. 
MY  dear  colvin, —I  am  seedy — very  seedy,  I  may 
say.     I  am  quite  unfit  for  any  work  or  any  pleasure;  and 
generally  very  sick.     I  am  going  away  next  week  on 

81 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1374  Wednesday  for  my  cruise  which  I  hope  will  set  me  up 
'^^'  ^^  again.  I  should  like  a  proof  here  up  to  Wednesday  morn- 
ing, or  at  Greenock,  Tontine  Hotel,  up  to  Friday  morning, . 
as  I  don't  quite  know  my  future  address.  I  hope  you  are 
better,  and  that  it  was  not  that  spell  of  work  you  had 
that  did  the  harm.  It  is  to  my  spurt  of  work  that  I  am 
redevable  for  my  harm.  Walt  Whitman  is  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all,  *crh  nom!  What  a  pen  I  have! — a  new  pen, 
God  be  praised,  how  smoothly  it  functions!  Would  that 
I  could  work  as  well.  Chorus — Would  that  both  of  us 
could  work  as  well — would  that  all  of  us  could  work  as 
well!  — Ever  yours,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

P.5.— Bob  is  better;  but  he  might  be  better  yet.     All 
goes  smoothly  except  my  murrained  health. 


TO  Mrs.  Sitwell 

SWANSTON  [Summer,  1874], 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  am  back  again  here,  as  brown  as 
a  berry  with  sun,  and  in  good  form.  I  have  been  and  gone 
and  lost  my  portmanteau,  with  IValt  Whitman  in  it  and 
a  lot  of  notes.  This  is  a  nuisance.  However,  I  am  pretty 
happy,  only  wearying  for  news  of  you  and  for  your  ad- 
dress. 

Friday,— A  la  bonne  heure!  I  hear  where  you  are  and 
that  you  are  apparently  fairish  well.  That  is  good  at 
leasi  I  am  full  of  Reformation  work ;  up  to  the  eyes  in 
it;  and  begin  to  feel  learned.  A  beautiful  day  outside, 
though  something  cold.  R.  L.  S. 

8a 


STUDENT  DAYS 

1874 

TO  Sidney  Colvin  *t.  43 

Of  the  projects  here  mentioned,  that  of  the  little  book  of  essays  on 
the  enjoyment  of  the  world  never  took  shape,  nor  were  those  contri- 
butions towards  it  which  he  printed  in  the  Portfolio  ever  republished 
until  after  the  writer's  death.  The  Appeal  to  the  Clergy  of  the  Church 
of  Scotland  was  printed  in  1874,  published  as  a  pamphlet  in  February, 
1875,  and  attracted,  I  believe,  no  attention  whatever.  The  Fables 
must  have  been  some  of  the  earliest  numbers  of  the  series  continued  at 
odd  times  till  near  the  date  of  his  death  and  published  posthumously: 
I  do  not  know  which,  but  should  guess  The  House  of  Eld,  Yelloia 
Paint,  and  perhaps  those  in  the  vein  of  Celtic  mystery,  The  Touchstone, 
The  Poor  Thing,  The  Song  of  To-morrow. 

[Swanston,  Summer,  1874],  Tmsday. 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,— What  is  new  with  you  ?  There 
is  nothing  new  with  me :  Knox  and  his  females  begin  to 
get  out  of  restraint  altogether;  the  subject  expands  so 
damnably,  I  know  not  where  to  cut  it  off.  I  have  another 
paper  for  the  PTFL^  on  the  stocks :  a  sequel  to  the  two 
others;  also,  that  is  to  say,  a  word  in  season  as  to  content- 
ment and  a  hint  to  the  careless  to  look  around  them  for 
disregarded  pleasures.  Seeley  wrote  to  me  asking  me 
"to  propose"  something:  1  suppose  he  means— well,  I 
suppose  I  don't  know  what  he  means.  But  I  shall  write 
to  him  (if  you  think  it  wise)  when  I  send  him  this  paper, 
saying  that  my  writing  is  more  a  matter  of  God's  disposi- 
tion than  of  man's  proposal;  that  I  had  from  Roads  up- 
ward ever  intended  to  make  a  little  budget  of  little  papers 
all  with  this  intention  before  them,  call  it  ethical  or  aesthetic 
as  you  will ;  and  thus  I  shall  leave  it  to  him  (if  he  likes) 
to  regard  this  little  budget,  as  slowly  they  come  forth,  as 
a  unity  in  its  own  small  way.  Twelve  or  twenty  such 
^Portfolio. 
83 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874    essays,  some  of  them  mainly  ethical  and  expository,  put 

^^'  ^^  together  in  a  little  book  with  narrow  print  in  each  page, 

antique,  vine  leaves  about,  and  the  following  title. 

XII  (or  XX)   ESSAYS  ON  THE  ENJOYMENT 
OF  THE  WORLD: 

By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

fA  motto  in  italics) 

Publisher 
Place  and  date 


You  know  the  class  of  old  book  I  have  in  my  head.  1 
smack  my  lips ;  would  it  not  be  nice !  I  am  going  to 
launch  on  Scotch  ecclesiastical  affairs,  in  a  tract  addressed 
to  the  Clergy ;  in  which  doctrinal  matters  being  laid  aside, 
I  contend  simply  that  they  should  be  just  and  dignified 
men  at  a  certain  crisis:  this  for  the  honour  of  humanity. 
Its  authorship  must,  of  course,  be  secret  or  the  publication 
would  be  useless.  You  shall  have  a  copy  of  course,  and 
may  God  help  you  to  understand  it. 

I  have  done  no  more  to  my  Fables.  I  find  I  must  let 
things  take  their  time.  1  am  constant  to  my  schemes ; 
but  I  must  work  at  them  fitfully  as  the  humour  moves. 

—To  return,  I  wonder,  if  I  have  to  make  a  budget  of 
such  essays  as  I  dream,  whether  Seeley  would  publish 
them :  I  should  give  them  unity,  you  know,  by  the  doc- 
trinal essays;  nor  do  I  think  these  would  be  the  least 
agreeable.  You  must  give  me  your  advice  and  tell  me 
whether  I  should  throw  out  this  delicate  feeler  to  R.  S.* ; 
or  if  not,  what  I  am  to  say  to  this  **  proposal "  business. 
» Richmond  Seeley. 
84 


STUDENT  DAYS 

1  shall  go  to  England  or  Wales,  with  parents,  shortly :     1874 
after  which,  dash  to  Poland  before  setting  in  for  the  dismal  ^^'  ^^ 
session  at  Edinburgh. 

Spirits  good,  with  a  general  sense  of  hollowness  under- 
neath: wanity  of  wanities  etc.  — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

P,S,  —  Parents  capital ;    thanks  principally  to  them ; 
yours  truly  still  rather  bitter,  but  less  so. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  last  paragraph  of  the  following  means  that  Dr.  Appleton,  the 
amiable  and  indefatigable  editor  of  the  Academy,  then  recently  founded, 
had  been  a  little  disturbed  in  mind  by  some  of  the  contributions  of  his 
brilliant  young  friend,  but  allowed  his  academic  conscience  to  be  salved 
by  the  fact  of  their  signature. 

[Swanston,  Summer,  1874,] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  Am  I  mad  ?  Have  1  lived  thus 
long  and  have  you  known  me  thus  long,  to  no  purpose  ? 
Do  you  imagine  I  could  ever  write  an  essay  a  month,  or 
promise  an  essay  even  every  three  months  ?  1  declare  1 
would  rather  die  than  enter  into  any  such  arrangement. 
The  Essays  must  fall  from  me.  Essay  by  Essay,  as  they 
ripen ;  and  all  that  my  communication  with  Seeley  would 
effect  would  be  to  make  him  see  more  in  them  than  mere  oc- 
casional essays ;  or  at  least  look  far  more  faithfully,  in  which 
spirit  men  rarely  look  in  vain.  You  know  both  Roads  and 
my  little  girls^  are  a  part  of  the  scheme  which  dates  from 
early  at  Mentone.  My  word  to  Seeley,  therefore,  would 
be  to  inform  him  of  what  I  hope  will  lie  ultimately  behind 
» The  essay  Notes  on  the  Movements  of  Young  Children. 
85 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  them,  of  how  I  regard  them  as  contributions  towards  a 
^^'  ^^  friendlier  and  more  thoughtful  way  of  looking  about  one, 
etc.  One  other  purpose  of  telling  him  would  be  that  I 
should  feel  myself  more  at  liberty  to  write  as  I  please,  and 
not  bound  to  drag  in  a  tag  about  Art  every  time  to  make 
it  more  suitable.  Tying  myself  down  to  time  is  an  impos- 
sibility. You  know  my  own  description  of  myself  as  a 
person  with  a  poetic  character  and  no  poetic  talent ;  just  as 
my  prose  muse  has  all  the  ways  of  a  poetic  one,  and  I  must 
take  my  Essays  as  they  come  to  me.  If  I  got  12  of  'em 
done  in  two  years,  I  should  be  pleased.  Never,  please, 
let  yourself  imagine  that  I  am  fertile ;  I  am  constipated  in 
the  brains. 

Look  here,  Appleton  dined  here  last  night  and  was  de- 
lightful after  the  manner  of  our  Appleton :  I  was  none  the 
less  pleased,  because  I  was  somewhat  amused,  to  hear 
of  your  kind  letter  to  him  in  defence  of  my  productions. 
I  was  amused  at  the  tranquil  dishonesty  with  which  he 
told  me  that  I  must  put  my  name  to  all  I  write  and  then 
all  will  be  well.  — Yours  ever,  R.  L.  S. 


To  MRS.  SITWELL 

Friday  [August  10, 1874], 
Yesterday  received  the  letter  you  know  of.  I  have 
finished  my  Portfolio  paper,  not  very  good  but  with  things 
in  it:  1  don't  know  if  they  will  take  it;  and  1  have  got  a 
good  start  made  with  my  John  Knox  articles.  The  weather 
here  is  rainy  and  miserable  and  windy :  it  is  warm  and 
not  over  boisterous  for  a  certain  sort  of  pleasure.  This 
place,  as  I  have  made  my  first  real  inquisition  into  it 

86 


STUDENT  DAYS 

to-night,  is  curious  enough ;  all  the  days  1  have  been  here,     1874 
I  have  been  at  work,  and  so  I  was  quite  new  to  it.  ^^'  ^^ 

Saturday,— A  most  beautiful  day.  We  took  a  most 
beautiful  drive,  also  up  the  banks  of  the  river.  The 
heather  and  furze  are  in  flower  at  once  and  make  up  a 
splendid  richness  of  colour  on  the  hills;  the  trees  were 
beautiful ;  there  was  a  bit  of  winding  road  with  larches  on 
one  hand  and  oaks  on  the  other ;  the  oaks  were  in  shadow 
and  printed  themselves  off  at  every  corner  on  the  sunlit 
background  of  the  larches.  We  passed  a  little  family  of  chil- 
dren by  the  roadside.  The  youngest  of  all  sat  a  good  way 
apart  from  the  others  on  the  summit  of  a  knoll ;  it  was  en- 
sconced in  an  old  tea-box,  out  of  which  issued  its  head  and 
shoulders  in  a  blue  cloak  and  scarlet  hat.  O  if  you  could 
have  seen  its  dignity !  It  was  deliciously  humorous :  and 
this  little  piece  of  comic  self-satisfaction  was  framed  in 
wondei fully  by  the  hills  and  the  sunlit  estuary.  We  saw 
another  child  in  a  cottage  garden.  She  had  been  sick,  it 
seemed,  and  was  taking  the  air  quietly  for  health's  sake. 
Over  her  pale  face,  she  had  decorated  herself  with  all 
available  flowers  and  weeds;  and  she  was  driving  one 
chair  as  a  horse,  sitting  in  another  by  way  of  carriage. 
We  cheered  her  as  we  passed,  and  she  acknowledged  the 
compliment  like  a  queen.  I  like  children  better  every  day, 
I  think,  and  most  other  things  less.  John  Knox  goes  on, 
and  a  horrible  story  of  a  nurse  which  I  think  almost  too 
cruel  to  go  on  with :  I  wonder  why  my  stories  are  always 
so  nasty. ^  I  am  still  well,  and  in  good  spirits.  I  say,  by 
the  way,  have  you  any  means  of  finding  Madame  Gar- 
schine's  address.?     If  you  have,  communicate  with  me. 

*  I  remember  nothing  of  either  the  title  or  the  tenor  of  this  story. 

87 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874     I  fear  my  last  letter  has  been  too  late  to  catch  her  at 
'  ^^  Franzensbad ;  and  so  I  shall  have  to  go  without  my  visit 
altogether,  which  would  vex  me. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Barmouth,  September,  1874],  Tuesday. 

I  WONDER  if  you  ever  read  Dickens*  Christmas  books  ? 
1  don't  know  that  I  would  recommend  you  to  read  them, 
because  they  are  too  much  perhaps.  I  have  only  read 
two  of  them  yet,  and  feel  so  good  after  them  and  would  do 
anything,  yes  and  shall  do  anything,  to  make  it  a  little 
better  for  people.  I  wish  I  could  lose  no  time ;  I  want  to 
go  out  and  comfort  some  one ;  I  shall  never  listen  to  the 
nonsense  they  tell  one  about  not  giving  money — I  shall 
give  money ;  not  that  I  haven't  done  so  always,  but  I  shall 
do  it  with  a  high  hand  now. 

It  is  raining  here;  and  I  have  been  working  at  John 
Knox,  and  at  the  horrid  story  I  have  in  hand,  and  walking 
in  the  rain.  Do  you  know  this  story  of  mine  is  horrible  ; 
I  only  work  at  it  by  fits  and  starts,  because  I  feel  as  if  it 
were  a  sort  of  crime  against  humanity — it  is  so  cruel. 

Wednesday. —  I  saw  such  nice  children  again  to-day; 
one  little  fellow  alone  by  the  roadside,  putting  a  stick  into 
a  spout  of  water  and  singing  to  himself — so  wrapt  up 
that  we  had  to  poke  him  with  our  umbrellas  to  attract  his 
attention ;  and  again,  two  solid,  fleshly,  grave,  double- 
chinned  burgomasters  in  black,  with  black  hats  on  'em, 
riding  together  in  what  they  call,  I  think,  a  double  peram- 

88 


STUDENT  DAYS 

bulator.     My  father  is  such  fun  here.    He  is  always  skip-    1874 
ping  about  into  the  drawing-room,  and  speaking  to  all  the  ^^'  ^^ 
girls,  and  telling  them  God  knows  what  about  us  all.     My 
mother  and  I  are  the  old  people  who  sit  aloof,  receive  him 
as  a  sort  of  prodigal  when  he  comes  back  to  us,  and  listen 
indulgently  to  what  he  has  to  tell. 

Llandudno,  Thursday,  —A  cold  bleak  place  of  stucco 
villas  with  wide  streets  to  let  the  wind  in  at  you.  A 
beautiful  journey,  however,  coming  hither. 

Friday^ — Seeley  has  taken  my  paper,  which  is,  as  I  now 
think,  not  to  beat  about  the  bush,  bad.  However,  there 
are  pretty  things  in  it,  I  fancy;  we  shall  see  what  you 
shall  say. 

Sunday,  — \  took  my  usual  walk  before  turning  in  last 
night,  and  dallied  over  it  a  little.  It  was  a  cool,  dark,  sol- 
emn night,  starry,  but  the  sky  charged  with  big  black 
clouds.  The  lights  in  house  windows  you  could  see,  but 
the  houses  themselves  were  lost  in  the  general  blackness. 
A  church  clock  struck  eleven  as  I  went  past,  and  rather 
startled  me.  The  whiteness  of  the  road  was  all  I  had  to 
go  by.  I  heard  an  express  train  roaring  away  down  the 
coast  into  the  night,  and  dying  away  sharply  in  the  dis- 
tance;, it  was  like  the  noise  of  an  enormous  rocket,  or  a 
shot  world,  one  would  fancy.  I  suppose  the  darkness 
made  me  a  little  fanciful ;  but  when  at  first  I  was  puzzled 
by  this  great  sound  in  the  night,  between  sea  and  hills,  I 
thought  half  seriously  that  it  might  be  a  world  broken 
loose — this  world  to  wit.  I  stood  for  I  suppose  five  sec- 
onds with  this  looking-for  of  destruction  in  my  head,  not 

89 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


/ET.   23 


1874  exactly  frightened  but  put  out;  and  I  wanted  badly  not  to 
be  overwhelmed  where  1  was,  unless  1  could  cry  out  a 
farewell  with  a  great  voice  over  the  ruin  and  make  myself 
heard. — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

Mr.  (later  Sir)  George  Grove  was  for  some  years  before  and  after 
this  date  the  editor  of  Macmillan's  Magazine  (but  the  true  monument 
to  his  memory  is  of  course  his  Dictionary  of  Music).  After  the  Knox 
articles  no  more  contributions  from  R.  L.  S.  appeared  in  this  magazine, 
partly,  I  think,  because  Mr.  Alexander  Macmillan  disapproved  of  his 
essay  on  Burns  published  the  following  year.  The  Portfolio  paper 
here  mentioned  is  that  entitled  On  the  Enjoyment  of  Unpleasant 
Places. 

[SWANSTON,  Autumn,  1874],  Thursday. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,— I  have  another  letter  from  Grove, 
about  my  John  Knox,  which  is  flattering  in  its  way :  he  is 
a  very  gushing  and  spontaneous  person.  1  am  busy  with 
another  Portfolio  paper  for  which  I  can  find  no  name;  I 
think  I  shall  require  to  leave  it  without. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  get  to  London  on  my  way  to  Po- 
land, but  I  must  try  to  manage  it  on  my  way  back;  1 
must  see  you  anyway,  before  1  tackle  this  sad  winter 
work,  just  to  get  new  heart.  As  it  is,  I  am  as  jolly  as 
three,  in  good  health,  fairish  working  trim  and  on  good, 
very  good,  terms  with  my  people. 

Look  here,  I  must  have  people  well.  If  they  will  keep 
well,  I  am  all  right:  if  they  won't — well  I  '11  do  as  well  as 
I  can,  and  forgive  them,  and  try  to  be  something  of  a 
comfortable  thought  in  spite.  So  with  that  cheerful  senti- 
ment, good-night  dear  friend  arid  good  health  to  you. 

90 


STUDENT  DAYS 


Saturday,  — Your  letter  to-day.     Thank  you.    It  is  a    1874 


horrid  day,  outside.  You  talk  of  my  setting  to  a  book, 
as  if  I  could;  don't  you  know  that  things  must  come  to 
me?  I  can  do  but  little;  I  mostly  wait  and  look  out.  I 
am  struggling  with  a  Portfolio  paper  just  now,  which  will 
not  come  straight  somehow  and  will  get  too  gushy ;  but  a 
little  patience  will  get  it  out  of  the  kink  and  sober  it  down 
I  hope.  1  have  been  thinking  over  my  movements,  and 
am  not  sure  that  I  may  get  to  London  on  my  way  to  Po- 
land after  all.  Hurrah  !  But  we  must  not  halloo  till  we 
are  out  of  the  wood ;  this  may  be  only  a  clearing. 

God  help  us  all,  it  is  a  funny  world.  To  see  people 
skipping  all  round  us  with  their  eyes  sealed  up  with  indif- 
ference, knowing  nothing  of  the  earth  or  man  or  woman, 
going  automatically  to  offices  and  saying  they  are  happy  or 
unhappy  out  of  a  sense  of  duty,  I  suppose,  surely  at  least 
from  no  sense  of  happiness  or  unhappiness,  unless  perhaps 
they  have  a  tooth  that  twinges,  is  it  not  like  a  bad  dream  ? 
Why  don't  they  stamp  their  foot  upon  the  ground  and 
awake  ?  There  is  the  moon  rising  in  the  east,  and  there 
is  a  person  with  their  heart  broken  and  still  glad  and  con- 
scious of  the  world's  glory  up  to  the  point  of  pain;  and 
behold  they  know  nothing  of  all  this !  I  should  like  to 
kick  them  into  consciousness,  for  damp  gingerbread  pup- 
pets as  they  are.  S.  C.  is  down  on  me  for  being  bitter ; 
who  can  help  it  sometimes,  especially  after  they  have 
slept  ill .? 

I  am  going  to  have  a  lot  of  lunch  presently ;  and  then  I 
shall  feel  all  right  again,  and  the  loneliness  will  pass  away 
as  often  before.  It  is  the  flesh  that  is  weak.  Already  1 
have  done  myself  all  the  good  in  the  world  by  this  scribble, 
and  feel  alive  again  and  pretty  jolly. 

91 


^T.    23 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  Sunday, — What  a  day!  Cold  and  dark  as  midwinter. 
*  ^^  I  shall  send  with  this  two  new  photographs  of  myself  for 
your  opinion.  My  father  regards  this  life  "as  a  shambling 
sort  of  omnibus  which  is  taking  him  to  his  hotel."  Is  that 
not  well  said  1  It  came  out  in  a  rather  pleasant  and  en- 
tirely amicable  discussion  which  we  had  this  afternoon  on 
a  walk.  The  colouring  of  the  world,  to-day,  is  of  course 
hideous;  we  saw  only  one  pleasant  sight,  a  couple  of 
lovers  under  a  thorn-tree  by  the  wayside,  he  with  his  arm 
about  her  waist :  they  did  not  seem  to  find  it  so  cold  as 
we.  I  have  made  a  lot  of  progress  to-day  with  my  Portfolio 
paper.  I  think  some  of  it  should  be  nice,  but  it  rambles  a 
little ;  I  like  rambling,  if  the  country  be  pleasant ;  don't 
you  ? — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[October  27,  1824],  Edinburgh,  Thursday. 
It  is  cold,  but  very  sunshiny  and  dry;  I  wish  you  were 
here;  it  would  suit  you  and  it  doesn't  suit  me ;  if  we  could 
change?  This  is  the  Fast  day — Thursday  preceding 
bi-annual  Holy  Sacrament  that  is — nobody  does  any  work, 
they  go  to  Church  twice,  they  read  nothing  secular 
(except  the  newspapers,  that  is  the  nuance  between  Fast 
day  and  Sunday),  they  eat  like  fighting-cocks.  Behold 
how  good  a  thing  it  is  and  becoming  well  to  fast  in  Scot- 
land. I  am  progressing  with  John  Knox  and  Women  No. 
2 ;  I  shall  finish  it,  I  think,  in  a  fortnight  hence ;  and  then 
I  shall  begin  to  enjoy  myself.  /.  K,  and  W.  No.  2  is  not 
uninteresting  however ;  it  only  bores  me  because  I  am  so 

92 


STUDENT  DAYS 

anxious  to  be  at  something  else  which  I  like  better.    I  shall    1874 
perhaps  go  to  Church  this  afternoon  from  a  sort  of  feeling  ^^'  ^^ 
that  it  is  rather  a  wholesome  thing  to  do  of  an  afternoon ; 
it  keeps  one  from  work  and  it  lets  you  out  so  late  that  you 
cannot  weary  yourself  walking  and  so  spoil  your  evening's 
work. 


Friday,— \  got  your  letter  this  morning,  and  whether 
owing  to  that,  or  to  the  fact  that  I  had  spent  the  evening 
before  in  comparatively  riotous  living,  I  managed  to  work 
five  hours  and  a  half  well  and  without  fatigue ;  besides 
reading  about  an  hour  more  at  history.  This  is  a  thing  to 
be  proud  of. 

We  have  had  lately  some  of  the  most  beautiful  sunsets ; 
our  autumn  sunsets  here  are  always  admirable  in  colour. 
To-night  there  was  just  a  little  lake  of  tarnished  green 
deepening  into  a  blood-orange  at  the  margins,  framed 
above  by  dark  clouds  and  below  by  the  long  roof-line  of 
the  Egyptian  buildings  on  what  we  called  the  Mound,  the 
statues  on  the  top  (of  her  Britannic  Majesty  and  diverse 
nondescript  Sphinxes)  printing  themselves  off  black  against 
the  lit  space. 

Saturday, — It  has  been  colder  than  ever ;  and  to-night 
there  is  a  truculent  wind  about  the  house,  shaking  the 
windows  and  making  a  hollow  inarticulate  grumbling  in 
the  chimney.  I  cannot  say  how  much  I  hate  the  cold.  It 
makes  my  scalp  so  tight  across  my  head  and  gives  me  such 
a  beastly  rheumatism  about  my  shoulders,  and  wrinkles 
and  stiffens  my  face ;  O  I  have  such  a  Sehnsucht  for 
Mentone,  where  the  sun  is  shining  and  the  air  still,  and 
(a  friend  writes  to  me)  people  are  complaining  of  the  heat. 

93 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

X874  Sunday. — 1  was  chased  out  by  my  lamp  again  last 
*^*  ^^  night ;  it  always  goes  out  when  I  feel  in  the  humour  to 
write  to  you.  To-day  I  have  been  to  Church,  which  has 
not  improved  my  temper  1  must  own.  The  clergyman 
did  his  best  to  make  me  hate  him,  and  I  took  refuge  in 
that  admirable  poem  the  Song  of  Deborah  and  Barak ;  I 
should  like  to  make  a  long  scroll  of  painting  (say  to  go  all 
round  a  cornice)  illustrative  of  this  poem ;  with  the  people 
seen  in  the  distance  going  stealthily  on  footpaths  while  the 
great  highways  go  vacant ;  with  the  archers  besetting  the 
draw-wells;  with  the  princes  in  hiding  on  the  hills  among 
the  bleating  sheep-flocks;  with  the  overthrow  of  Sisera, 
the  stars  fighting  against  him  in  their  courses  and  that 
ancient  river,  the  river  Kishon,  sweeping  him  away  in 
anger;  with  his  mother  looking  and  looking  down  the 
long  road  in  the  red  sunset,  and  never  a  banner  and  never  a 
spear-clump  coming  into  sight,  and  her  women  with  white 
faces  round  her,  ready  with  lying  comfort.  To  say  noth- 
ing of  the  people  on  white  asses. 

O,  I  do  hate  this  damned  life  that  I  lead.  Work — work 
— work ;  that 's  all  right,  it 's  amusing;  but  I  want  women 
about  me  and  I  want  pleasure.  John  Knox  had  a  better 
time  of  it  than  I,  with  his  godly  females  all  leaving  their 
husbands  to  follow  after  him ;  I  would  I  were  John  Knox ; 
I  hate  living  like  a  hermit.  Write  me  a  nice  letter  if  ever 
you  are  in  the  humour  to  write  me,  and  it  doesn't  hurt 
your  head.    Good-bye.  —  Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


94 


STUDENT  DAYS 

1874 
To  MRS.  SITWELL  ^^*  2^ 

The  projected  visit  to  his  Russian  friend  in  Poland  did  not  come  off, 
and  shortly  after  the  preceding  letter  Stevenson  went  for  a  few  days' 
walking  tour  in  the  Chiltem  Hills  of  Buckinghamshire,  as  recorded  in 
his  essay  An  Autumn  Effect.     He  then  came  on  for  a  visit  to  London. 

[LONDON,  Norvember,  18^4,] 
When  I  left  you  I  found  an  organ-grinder  in  Russell 
Square  playing  to  a  child ;  and  the  simple  fact  that  there 
was  a  child  listening  to  him,  that  he  was  giving  this  pleas- 
ure, entitled  him,  according  to  my  theory,  as  you  know, 
to  some  money ;  so  I  put  some  coppers  on  the  ledge  of  his 
organ,  without  so  much  as  looking  at  him,  and  I  was  go- 
ing on  when  a  woman  said  to  me:  **  Yes  sir,  he  do  look 
bad,  don't  he  ?  scarcely  fit  like  to  be  working/'  And  then  I 
looked  at  the  man,  and  O !  he  was  so  ill,  so  yellow  and 
heavy-eyed  and  drooping.  I  did  not  like  to  go  back  some- 
how, and  so  I  gave  the  woman  a  shilling  and  asked  her  to 
give  it  to  him  for  me.  I  saw  her  do  so  and  walked  on ; 
but  the  face  followed  me,  and  so  when  I  had  got  to  the  end 
of  the  division,  I  turned  and  came  back  as  hard  as  I  could 
and  filled  his  hand  with  money — ten  to  thirteen  shillings, 
1  should  think.  I  was  sure  he  was  going  to  be  ill,  you 
know,  and  he  was  a  young  man ;  and  I  dare  say  he  was 
alone,  and  had  no  one  to  love  him. ' 

I  had  my  reward ;  for  a  few  yards  farther  on,  here  was 
another  organ-grinder  playing  a  dance  tune,  and  perhaps  a 
dozen  children  all  dancing  merrily  to  his  music,  singly,  and 
by  twos  and  threes,  and  in  pretty  little  figures  together. 
Just  what  my  organ-grinder  in  my  story  wanted  to  have 
happen  to  him !  It  was  so  gay  and  pleasant  in  the  twi- 
light under  the  street  lamp. 

9S 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874        I  am  very  well,  have  eaten  well  and  am  so  sleepy  I  can 
^  '  ^^  write  no  more.    This  I  write  to  let  you  know  I  am  no 
worse;  all  the  better.— Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

R.  L.  S. 


TO  Mrs.  Sitwell 

[Edinburgh,  November,  i8y4\  Sunday. 
I  WAS  never  more  sorry  to  leave  you,  but  I  never  left 
you  with  a  better  heart,  than  last  night.  1  had  a  long 
journey  and  a  cold  one ;  but  never  was  sick  nor  sorry  the 
whole  way.  It  was  a  long  one  because  when  we  got  to 
Berwick,  we  had  to  go  round  through  the  hills  by  Kelso, 
as  there  was  a  block  on  the  main  line.  I  knew  nothing 
of  this,  and  you  may  imagine  my  bewilderment  when  I 
came  to  myself,  the  train  standing  and  whistling  dismally 
in  the  black  morning,  before  a  little  vacant  half-lit  station, 
with  a  name  up  that  I  had  never  heard  before.  My  fel- 
low-traveller woke  up  and  wanted  to  know  what  was 
wrong.  **0,  it 's  nothing,"  I  said,  ** nothing  at  all,  it  *s 
an  evil  dream.''  However  we  had  the  thing  explained  to 
us  at  the  end  of  ends,  and  trailed  on  in  the  dark  among 
the  snowy  hills,  stopping  every  now  and  again  and  whis- 
tling in  an  appealing  kind  of  way,  as  much  as  to  say,  **God 
knows  where  we  are,  for  God's  sake  don't  run  into  us;  '* 
until  at  last  we  came  to  a  dead  standstill,  and  remamed  so 
for  perhaps  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  This  wakened  us  up 
for  a  little;  and  we  managed,  at  last,  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  one  of  the  officials  whom  we  could  see  picking  their 
way  about  the  snow  with  lanterns.  This  man  (very  wide 
awake,  and  hale,  and  lusty)  informed  us  we  were  waiting 
for  another  conductor,  as  our  own  guard  did  not  know  the 

96 


STUDENT  DAYS 

line.  **  Where  is  the  new  guard  coming  from  ?  *'  we  ask.  1874 
**0,  close  by;  only — he,  he— he  was  married  last  night."  ^^'  ^^ 
And  immediately  we  heard  much  hoarse  laughter  in  the 
dark  about  us ;  and  the  moving  lanterns  were  shaken  to 
and  fro,  as  if  in  a  wind.  This  poor  conductor!  However, 
1  recomposed  myself  for  slumber,  and  did  not  reawake 
much  before  Edinburgh,  where  I  was  discharged  three 
hours  too  late  and  found  my  father  waiting  for  me  in  the 
snow,  with  a  very  long  face.  —  Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

I  forget  what  the  Japanese  prints  were  which  I  had  been  sending  to 
Stevenson  at  his  wish,  but  they  sound  like  specimens  of  Hiroshig^  and 
Kuniyoshi.  The  taste  for  these  things  was  then  quite  new  and  had 
laid  hold  on  him  strongly. 

[Edinburgh,  November,  1874.] 
MY  DEAR  colvin,— Thank  you,  and  God  bless  you 
for  ever:  this  is  a  far  better  lot  than  the  last;  I  have 
chosen  four  complete  sets  out  of  it  for  setting,  quite  ad- 
mirable: the  others  are  not  quite  one's  taste;  I  find  the 
colour  far  from  always  being  agreeable,  it  is  a  great  toss 
up.  They  have  sent  me  duplicates  of  first  a  mad  little 
scene  with  a  white  horse,  a  red  monarch  and  a  blue  arm  of 
the  sea  in  it;  and  second  of  a  night  scene  with  water, 
flowers  and  a  black  and  white  umbrella  and  a  wonderful 
grey  distance  and  a  wonderful  general  effect — one  of  my 
best  in  fact.  Do  not  now  force  yourself  to  make  any  more 
purchases  for  me;  but  if  ever  you  see  a  thing  you  would 
like  to  lecture  off,  remem.ber  I  am  the  person  who  is  ready 

97 


^T.   24 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

i«74    to  buy  it  and  let  you  have  the  use  of  it :  keep  this  in  view 
always. 

I  am  working  very  hard  (for  me)  and  am  very  happy 
over  my  picters. 
Good-bye,  mon  vieux. — Ever  yours, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 

PS. — In  fact  if  ever  you  see  anything  exceptionally 
fine,  purchase  for  R.  L.  S.  I  owe  you  lots  of  money  be- 
sides this,  don't  I?  John  Knox  is  red  and  sparkling  on 
the  anvil  and  the  hammer  goes  about  six  hours  on  him. 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

During  his  days  in  London  Stevenson  had  gone  with  Mrs.  Sitwell  to 
revisit  the  Elgin  marbles,  and  had  carried  off  photographs  of  them  to 
put  up  in  his  room  at  Edinburgh.  King  Matthias's  Hunting  Horn 
has  perished  like  so  many  other  stories  of  this  time. 

[Edinburgh,  November,  18^4],  Tuesday. 
Well,  I've  got  some  women  now,  and  they're  better 
than  nothing.  Three,  without  heads,  who  have  been  away 
getting  framed.  And  you  know  they  are  more  to  me, 
after  a  fashion,  than  they  can  be  to  you,  because,  after  a 
fashion  also,  they  are  women.  I  have  come  now  to  think 
the  sitting  figure  in  spite  of  its  beautiful  drapery  rather  a 
blemish,  rather  an  interruption  to  the  sentiment.  The  two 
others  are  better  than  one  has  ever  dreamed ;  I  think  these 
two  women  are  the  only  things  in  the  world  that  have 
been  better  than,  in  Bible  phrase,  it  had  entered  into  'my 
heart  to  conceive.    Who  made  them  ?     Was  it  Pheidias  ? 

98 


STUDENT  DAYS 

or  do  they  not  know?     It  is  wonderful  what  company     1874 
they  are — noble  company.     And  then  1  have  now  three  ^^'  ^^ 
Japanese  pictures  that  are  after  my  own  heart,  and  I  get 
up  from  time  to  time  and  turn  a  bit  of  favourite  colour  over 
and  over,  roll  it  under  my  tongue,  savour  it  till  it  gets  all 
through  me ;  and  then  back  to  my  chair  and  to  work. 

This  afternoon  about  six  there  was  a  small  orange  moon, 
lost  in  a  great  world  of  blue  evening.  A  few  leafless 
boughs,  and  a  bit  of  garden  railing,  crisscross  its  face ;  and 
below  it  there  was  blueness  and  the  spread  lights  of  Leith, 
lost  in  blue  haze.  To  the  east,  the  town,  also  subdued  to 
the  same  blue,  piled  itself  up,  with  here  and  there  a  lit 
window,  until  it  could  print  off  its  outline  against  a  faint 
patch  of  green  and  russet  that  remained  behind  the 
sunset. 

I  must  tell  you  about  my  way  of  life,  which  is  regular 
to  a  degree.  Breakfast  8.30;  during  breakfast  and  my 
smoke  afterwards  till  ten,  when  I  begin  work,  I  read  Ref- 
ormation; from  ten,  I  work  until  about  a  quarter  to  one; 
from  one  until  two,  I  lunch  and  read  a  book  on  Schopen- 
hauer or  one  on  Positivism ;  two  to  three  work,  three  to  six 
anything ;  if  I  am  in  before  six,  I  read  about  Japan :  six, 
dinner  and  a  pipe  with  my  father  and  coffee  until  7.30; 
7.30  to  9.30,  work;  after  that  either  supper  and  a  pipe 
at  home,  or  out  to  Simpson's  or  Baxter's:  bed  between 
eleven  and  twelve. 

Wednesday. — Two  good  things  have  arrived  to  me  to- 
day :  your  letter  for  one,  and  the  end  of  John  Knox  for 
another.  I  cannot  write  English  because  1  have  been 
speaking  French  all  evening  with  some  French  people  of 
my  knowledge.     It's  a  sad  thing  the  state  I  get  into,  when 

99 


/ET.    24 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1874  I  cannot  remember  English  and  yet  do  not  know  French  ! 
And  it  is  worse  when  it  is  complicated,  as  at  present,  with 
a  pen  that  will  not  write  !  If  you  knew  how  I  have  to  paint 
and  how  1  have  to  manoeuvre  to  get  the  stuff  legible  at  all. 

Thursday.  —  I  have  said  the  Fates  are  only  women 
after  a  fashion;  and  that  is  one  of  the  strangest  things 
about  them.  They  are  wonderfully  womanly — they  are 
more  womanly  than  any  woman — and  those  girt  draper- 
ies are  drawn  over  a  wonderful  greatness  of  body  instinct 
with  sex ;  I  do  not  see  a  line  in  them  that  could  be  a  line 
in  a  man.  And  yet,  when  all  is  said,  they  are  not  women 
for  us;  they  are  of  another  race,  immortal,  separate;  one 
has  no  wish  to  look  at  them  with  love,  only  with  a  sort 
of  lowly  adoration,  physical,  but  wanting  what  is  the  soul 
of  all  love,  whether  admitted  to  oneself  or  not,  hope ;  in  a 
word  **the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star.**  O  great 
white  stars  of  eternal  marble,  O  shapely,  colossal  women, 
and  yet  not  women.  It  is  not  love  that  we  seek  from  them, 
we  do  not  desire  to  seek  their  great  eyes  troubled  with 
our  passions,  or  the  great  impassive  members  contorted  by 
any  hope  or  pain  or  pleasure  ;  only  now  and  again,  to  be 
conscious  that  they  exist,  to  have  knowledge  of  them  far 
off  in  cloudland  or  feel  their  steady  eyes  shining,  like 
quiet  watchful  stars,  above  the  turmoil  of  the  earth. 

I  write  so  ill ;  so  cheap  and  miserable  and  penny-a- 
linerish  is  this  John  Knox  that  I  have  just  sent,  that  I  am 
low.  Only  I  keep  my  heart  up  by  thinking  of  you.  And 
if  all  goes  to  the  worst,  shall  I  not  be  able  to  lay  my  head 
on  the  great  knees  of  the  middle  Fate — O  these  great 
knees — I  know  all  Baudelaire  meant  now  with  hisg^ante 
— to  lay  my  head  on  her  great  knees  and  go  to  sleep. 


STUDENT  DAYS 


Friday. —l  have  finished  The  Story  of  King  Matthias*    1874 


Hunting  Horn,  whereof  I  spoke  to  you,  and  I  think  it 
should  be  good.  It  excites  me  like  wine,  or  fire,  or  death, 
or  love,  or  something;  nothing  of  my  own  writing  ever 
excited  me  so  much  ;  it  does  seem  to  me  so  weird  and  fan- 
tastic. 

Saturday.  —  I  know  now  that  there  is  a  more  subtle  and 
dangerous  sort  of  selfishness  in  habit  than  there  ever  can 
be  in  disorder.  I  never  ceased  to  be  generous  when  I  was 
most  deregle;  now  when  I  am  beginning  to  settle  into 
habits,  I  see  the  danger  in  front  of  me — one  might  cease 
to  be  generous  and  grow  hard  and  sordid  in  time  and 
trouble.  However,  thank  God  it  is  life  I  want,  and  noth- 
ing posthumous,  and  for  two  good  emotions  I  would 
sacrifice  a  thousand  years  of  fame.  Moreover  I  know  so 
well  that  I  shall  never  be  much  as  a  writer  that  I  am  not 
very  sorely  tempted. 

My  only  chance  is  in  my  stories ;  and  so  you  will  for- 
give me  if  I  postpone  everything  else  to  copy  out  King 
Matthias;  I  have  learned  by  experience  that  a  story 
should  be  copied  out  and  finished  fairly  off  at  the  first 
heat  if  ever.  I  am  even  thinking  of  finishing  up  half-a- 
dozen  perhaps  and  trying  the  publishers.  What  do  you 
say  ?     Give  me  your  advice. 

Sunday. —  Good-bye.  A  long  story  to  tell  but  no  time 
to  tell  it:  well  and  happy.  Adieu.  —  Ever  your  faithful 
friend,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


xrt.  24 


lOI 


•i87S 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  MRS.   SiTWELL 

The  Portfolio  article  here  mentioned  is  An  Autumn  Effect  Csee 
Essays  of  Travel).  The  Italian  story  so  delightfully  begun  was  by  and 
by  condemned  and  destroyed  like  all  the  others  of  this  time. 

[Edinburgh,  January y  i8y^],  Monday. 
Have  come  from  a  concert.  Sinico  sang,  tant  bien  que 
mal,  '*Ah  perfido  spergiuro!  *';  and  then  we  had  the 
Eroica  symphony  (No.  3).  I  can,  and  need,  say  no 
more;  I  am  rapt  out  of  earth  by  it;  Beethoven  is  cer- 
tainly the  greatest  man  the  world  has  yet  produced.  I 
wonder,  is  there  anything  so  superb — I  can  find  no  word 
for  it  more  specific  than  superb — all  I  know  is  that  all  my 
knowledge  is  transcended.  I  finished  to-day  and  sent  off 
(and  a  mighty  mean  detail  it  is,  to  set  down  after  Bee- 
thoven's grand  passion)  my  Portfolio  article  about  Buck- 
inghamshire. In  its  own  way  I  believe  it  to  be  a  good 
thing ;  and  I  hope  you  will  find  something  in  it  to  like ; 
it  touches,  in  a  dry  enough  manner,  upon  most  things 
under  heaven,  and  if  you  like  me,  I  think  you  ought  to 
like  this  intellectual— -no,  I  withdraw  the  word— this 
artistic  dog  of  mine.  Thaw — thaw— thaw,  up  here  ;  and 
farewell  skating,  and  farewell  the  clear  dry  air  and  the 
wide,  bright,  white  snow-surface,  and  all  that  was  so 
pleasant  in  the  past. 

J^^^/z^si^.— Yesterday  I  wasn't  well  and  to-night  I 
have  been  ever  so  busy.  There  came  a  note  from  the 
Academy,  sent  by  John  H.  Ingram,  the  editor  of  the 
edition  of  Poe's  works  I  have  been  reviewing,  challenging 
me  to  find  any  more  faults.     I  have  found  nearly  sixty ; 

102 


STUDENT  DAYS 

SO  I  may  be  happy;  but  that  makes  me  none  the  less     187^ 
sleepy;  so  I  must  go  to  bed.  ^^'  ^^ 

Friday. — I  am  awfully  out  of  the  humour  to  write ;  I  am 
very  inert  although  quite  happy ;  I  am  informed  by  those 
who  are  more  expert  that  I  am  bilious.  Bien;  let  it  be 
so;  I  am  still  content;  and  though  I  can  do  no  original 
work,  I  get  forward  making  notes  for  my  Knox  at  a  good 
trot. 

Saturday. — I  am  so  happy.  I  am  no  longer  here  in 
Edinburgh.  I  have  been  all  yesterday  evening  and  this 
forenoon  in  Italy,  four  hundred  years  ago,  with  one  San- 
nazzaro,  sculptor,  painter,  poet,  etc.,  and  one  Ippolita,  a 
beautiful  Duchess.  O  I  like  it  badly  !  I  wish  you  could 
hear  it  at  once ;  or  rather  I  wish  you  could  see  it  immedi- 
ately in  beautiful  type  on  such  a  page  as  it  ought  to  be, 
in  my  first  little  volume  of  stories.  What  a  change  this 
is  from  collecting  dull  notes  for  John  Knox,  as  I  have  been 
all  the  early  part  of  the  week — the  difference  between  life 
and  death. — I  am  quite  well  again  and  in  such  happy 
spirits,  as  who  would  not  be,  having  spent  so  much  of  his 
time  at  that  convent  on  the  hills  with  these  sweet  people. 
ybus  verrez,  and  if  you  don't  like  this  story — well,  I  give 
it  up  if  you  don' t  like  it.  Not  but  what  there  's  a  long 
way  to  travel  yet ;  I  am  no  farther  than  the  threshold ;  I 
have  only  set  the  men,  and  the  game  has  still  to  be 
played,  and  a  lot  of  dim  notions  must  become  definite  and 
shapely,  and  a  deal  be  clear  to  me  that  is  anything  but 
clear  as  yet.  The  story  shall  be  called,  I  think.  When  the 
Devil  was  welly  in  allusion  to  the  old  proverb. 

Good-bye.  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

103 


i875 

^T.   24 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

IEdwbvrgh,  January,  i8y^.] 
I  WISH  I  could  write  better  letters  to  you.  Mine  must 
be  very  dull.  I  must  try  to  give  you  news.  Well,  1  was 
at  the  annual  dinner  of  my  old  Academy  schoolfellows 
last  night.  We  sat  down  ten,  out  of  seventy-two !  The 
others  are  scattered  all  over  the  places  of  the  earth,  some 
in  San  Francisco,  some  in  New  Zealand,  some  in  India, 
one  in  the  backwoods — it  gave  one  a  wide  look  over  the 
world  to  hear  them  talk  so.  I  read  them  some  verses. 
It  is  great  fun ;  I  always  read  verses,  and  in  the  vinous 
enthusiasm  of  the  moment  they  always  propose  to  have 
them  printed ;  Ce  qui  n' arrive  jamais  du  reste:  in  the 
morning,  they  are  more  calm. 

Sunday, — It  occurs  to  me  that  one  reason  why  there  is 
no  news  in  my  letters  is  because  there  is  so  little  in  my 
life.  I  always  tell  you  of  my  concerts ;  I  was  at  another 
yesterday  afternoon :  a  recital  of  Halle  and  Norman  Ne- 
ruda.  I  went  in  the  evening  to  the  pantomime  with  the 
Mackintoshes — cousins  of  mine.  Their  little  boy,  aged 
four,  was  there  for  the  first  time.  To  see  him  with  his 
eyes  fixed  and  open  like  saucers,  and  never  varying  his 
expression  save  in  so  far  as  he  might  sometimes  open  his 
mouth  a  little  wider,  was  worth  the  money.  He  laughed 
only  once — when  the  giant *s  dwarf  fed  his  master  as 
though  he  were  a  child.  Coming  home,  he  was  much 
interested  as  to  who  made  the  fairies,  and  wanted  to  know 
if  they  were  like  berries,  I  should  like  to  know  how  much 
this  question  was  due  to  the  idea  of  their  coming  up  from 

104 


STUDENT  DAYS 

under  the  stage,  and  how  much  to  a  vague  idea  of  rhyme.     ^^75 
When  he  was  told  that  they  were  not  like  berries,  he 
then  asked  if  they  had  not  been  flowers  before  they  were 
fairies.    It  was  a  good  deal  in  the  vein  of  Herbert  Spencer's 
primitive  man  all  this. 

I  am  pretty  well  but  have  not  got  back  to  work  much 
since  Tuesday.  I  work  far  too  hard  at  the  story ;  but  I 
wish  I  had  finished  it  before  I  stopped  as  I  feel  somewhat 
out  of  the  swing  now.  —  Ever  your  faithful 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Another  of  the  literary  projects  which  came  to  naught,. no  one  of  the 
stories  mentioned  having  turned  out  according  to  Stevenson's  dream 
and  desire  at  its  first  conception,  or  even  having  been  preserved  for  use 
afterwards  as  the  foundation  of  riper  work.  "  Clytie  "  is  of  course  the 
famous  Roman  bust  from  the  Townley  collection  in  the  British  Museum. 

[Edinburgh,  January ,  iSy^.] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN, — Thanks  for  your  letter,  I  too  am  in 
such  a  state  of  business  that  I  know  not  when  to  find  the 
time  to  write.  Look  here — Seeley  does  not  seem  to  me 
to  have  put  that  paper  of  mine  in  this  month  ;  so  I  remain 
unable  to  pay  you  ;  which  is  a  sad  pity  and  must  be  for- 
given me. 

What  am  1  doing  1  Well  I  wrote  my  second  John  Knox, 
which  is  not  a  bad  piece  of  work  for  me  ;  begun  and  fin- 
ished ready  for  press  in  nine  days.  Then  I  have  since 
written  a  story  called  King  Matthias's  Hunting  Horn,  and 
I  am  engaged  in  finishing  another  called  The  Tu^o  Fal- 
coners of  Cairnstane.  I  find  my  stories  affect  me  rather 
more  perhaps  than  is  wholesome.    I  have  only  been  two 

IDS 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1875    hours  at  work  to-day,  and  yet  1  have  been  crying  and  am 

*  ^^  shaking  badly,  as  you  can  see  in  my  handwriting,  and 

my  back  is  a  bit  bad.    They  give  me  pleasure  though, 

quite  worth  all  results.    However  I  shall  work  no  more 

to-day. 

I  am  to  get  ;^iooo  when  I  pass  Advocate,  it  seems ; 
which  is  good. 

O  I  say,  will  you  kindly  tell  me  all  about  the  bust  of 
Clytie, 


Then  I  had  the  wisdom  to  stop  and  look  over  Japanese 
picture  books  until  lunch  time. 

Well,  tell  me  about  Clytie,  how  old  is  it,  who  did  it, 
what 's  it  about,  etc.  Send  it  on  a  sheet  that  I  can  for- 
ward without  indiscretion  to  another,  as  I  desire  the  infor- 
mation for  a  friend  whom  I  wish  to  please. 

Now  look  here.  When  I  have  twelve  stories  ready — 
these  twelve — 

I.  The  Devil  on  Cramond  Sands  (needs  copying 

about  half). 
II.  The  Curate  of  Anstruther*s  Bottle  (needs  copying 

altogether) . 

III.  The  Two  Falconers  of  Cairnstane  (wants  a  few 
pages). 

IV.  Strange    Adventures   of   Mr.    Nehemiah    Solny 
(wants  reorganisation). 

V.  King  Matthias's  Hunting  Horn  (all  ready). 

VI.  Autolycus  at  Court  (in  gremio). 
VII.  The  Family  of  Love  (in  gremio). 
VIII.  The  Barrel  Organ  (all  ready). 

IX.  The  Last  Sinner  (wants  copying). 
106 


o 

o 

to 


iET.   24 


STUDENT  DAYS 

X.  Margery  Bonthron  (wants  a  few  pages).  1875 

XI.  Martin's  Madonna  (in  gremio). 
XII.  Life  and  Death  (all  ready). 

— when  I  have  these  twelve  ready,  should  I  not  do  better 
to  try  to  get  a  publisher  for  them,  call  them  A  Book  of 
Stories  and  put  a  dedicatory  letter  at  the  fore  end  of  them  ? 
I  should  get  less  coin  than  by  going  into  magazines  per- 
haps; but  I  should  also  get  more  notice,  should  I  not? 
and  so,  do  better  for  myself  in  the  long  run.  Now, 
should  I  not  ?  Besides  a  book  with  boards  is  a  book  with 
boards,  even  if  it  bain't  a  very  fat  one  and  has  no  refer- 
ences to  Ammianus,  Marcellinus  and  German  critics  at  the 
foot  of  the  pages.  On  all  this,  I  shall  want  your  serious 
advice.  I  am  sure  I  shall  stand  or  fall  by  the  stories ;  and 
you  Ml  think  so  too,  when  you  see  those  poor  excrescences 
the  two  John  Knox  and  Women  games.  However,  judge 
for  yourself  and  be  prudent  on  my  behalf,  like  a  good  soul. 

Yes,  I  Ml  come  to  Cambridge  then  or  thereabout,  if  God 
doesn't  put  a  real  tangible  spoke  in  my  wheel. 

My  terms  with  my  parents  are  admirable ;  we  are  a 
very  united  family. 

Good-bye,  man  cher,  je  ne  puis  plus  ecrire.  I  have  not 
quite  got  over  a  damned  affecting  part  in  my  story  this 
morning.  O  cussed  stories,  they  will  never  affect  any  one 
but  me  I  fear. — Ever  yours, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


107 


Mr.  24 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

[Edinburgh,  May  or  June,  187^,] 
1  SAY,  we  have  a  splendid  picture  here  in  Edinburgh.  A 
Ruysdael  of  which  one  can  never  tire  :  I  think  it  is  one  of 
the  best  landscapes  in  the  world ;  a  grey  still  day,  a  grey 
still  river,  a  rough  oak  wood  on  one  shore,  on  the  other 
chalky  banks  with  very  complicated  footpaths,  oak  woods, 
a  field  where  a  man  stands  reaping,  church  towers  relieved 
against  the  sky  and  a  beautiful  distance,  neither  blue  nor 
green.  It  is  so  still,  the  light  is  so  cool  and  temperate, 
the  river  woos  you  to  bathe  in  it.    O  I  like  it ! 

1  say,  I  wonder  if  our  Scottish  Academy's  exhibition  is 
going  to  be  done  at  all  for  Appleton  or  whether  he  does 
not  care  for  it.  It  might  amuse  me,  although  I  am  not  fit 
for  it.  Why  and  O  why  doesn't  Grove  publish  me  ?  — 
Ever  yours,  R.  L.  STEVENSON. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

I  was  at  this  time  revising  for  tiie  Portfolio  the  substance  of  Cam- 
bridge lectures  on  Hogarth. 

[SWANSTON,  yw«^,  187^.] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,-— I  am  a  devil  certainly;  but  write  I 
cannot.  Look  here,  you  had  better  get  hold  cf  G.  C. 
Lichtenberg's  Ausfurliche  Erklarung  der  Hogarthischen 
Kupferstiche:  Gottingen,  1794  to  18 16  (it  was  published 
in  numbers  seemingly).  Douglas  the  publisher  lent  it  to 
me:  and  tho'  I  hate  the  damned  tongue  too  cordially  to 
do  more  than  dip  into  it,  I  have  seen  some  shrewd  things. 
If  you  cannot  get  it  for  yourself  (it  seems  scarce) ,  I  dare 

108 


STUDENT  DAYS 

say  I  could  negotiate  with  Douglas  for  a  loan.  This  adora-  .1875 
ble  spring  has  made  me  quite  drunken,  drunken  with  green  ^^'  ^^ 
colour  and  golden  sound.  We  have  the  best  blackbird 
here  that  we  have  had  for  years ;  we  have  two ;  but  the 
other  is  but  an  average  performer.  Anything  so  rich  and 
clear  as  the  pipe  of  our  first  fiddle,  it  never  entered  into  the 
heart  of  man  to  fancy.  How  the  years  slip  away,  Colvin ; 
and  we  walk  little  cycles,  and  turn  in  little  abortive  spirals, 
and  come  out  again,  hot  and  weary,  to  find  the  same  view 
before  us,  the  same  hill  barring  the  road.  Only  bless  God 
for  it,  we  have  still  the  same  eye  to  see  with,  and  if  the 
scene  be  not  altogether  unsightly,  we  can  enjoy  it  whether 
or  no.  I  feel  quite  happy,  but  curiously  inert  and  passive, 
something  for  the  winds  to  blow  over,  and  the  sun  to 
glimpse  on  and  go  off  again,  as  it  might  be  a  tree  or  a 
gravestone.  All  this  willing  and  wishing  and  striving 
leadb  a  man  nowhere  after  all.  Here  I  am  back  again  in 
my  old  humour  of  a  sunny  equanimity  ;  to  see  the  world 
fleet  about  me ;  and  the  days  chase  each  other  like  sun 
patches,  and  the  nights  like  cloud-shadows,  on  a  windy 
day;  content  to  see  them  go  and  nowise  reluctant  for 
the  cool  evening,  with  its  dew  and  stars  and  fading  strain 
of  tragic  red.  And  I  ask  myself  why  I  ever  leave  this 
humour  ?  What  I  have  gained  ?  And  the  winds  blow 
in  the  trees  with  a  sustained  "  Pish  !  '*  and  the  birds  an- 
swer me  in  a  long  derisive  whistle. 

So  that  for  health,  happiness,  and  indifferent  literature, 
apply  to — Ever  yours,  R.  L.  S. 


109 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
^''-  ^^  TO  MRS.   SITWELL 

[Edinburgh,  July  75,  187^,] 
Passed. 

Ever  your 
R. 
L. 
S. 


Ill 

ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR 

EDINBURGH— PARIS 

(July,  1875-JuLY,  1879) 


Ill 

ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR 

EDINBURGH  —  PARIS 
(July,  1875-JULY,  1879) 


To  Sidney  Colvin  1875 

Ml.   24 

[Edinburgh,  end  of  July,  187^.] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  — Herewith  you  receive  the  rest  of 
Henley's  hospital  work.  He  was  much  pleased  by  what 
you  said  of  him,  and  asked  me  to  forward  these  to  you  for 
your  opinion.  One  poem,  the  Spring  Sorrow,  seems  to 
me  the  most  beautiful.  I  thank  God  for  this  petit  bout 
de  consolation^  that  by  Henley's  own  account,  this  one 
more  lovely  thing  in  the  world  is  not  altogether  without 
some  trace  of  my  influence :  let  me  say  that  I  have  been 
something  sympathetic  which  the  mother  found  and  con- 
templated while  she  yet  carried  it  in  her  womb.  This,  in 
my  profound  discouragement,  is  a  great  thing  for  me ;  if  I 
cannot  do  good  with  myself,  at  least,  it  seems,  I  can  help 
others  better  inspired ;  I  am  at  least  a  skilful  accoucheur. 
My  discouragement  is  from  many  causes :  among  others 
the  re-reading  of  my  Italian  story.  Forgive  me,  Colvin, 
but  I  cannot  agree  with  you ;  it  seems  green  fruit  to  me, 
if  not  really  unwholesome ;  it  is  profoundly  feeble,  damn 

113 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


itT.   24 


187s    its  weakness !     Moreover  I  stick  over  my  Fontainehleau, 
it  presents  difficulties  to  me  that  I  surmount  slowly. 

I  am  very  busy  with  Beranger  for  the  Britannica.    Shall 
be  up  in  town  on  Friday  or  Saturday.  —  Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S.,  Advocate. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  special  mood  or  occasion  of  unaccustomed  bitterness  which 
prompted  this  rhapsody  has  passed  from  memory  beyond  recall.  The 
date  must  be  after  his  return  from  his  second  excursion  to  Fontaine- 
bleau. 

[SWANSTON,  late  Summer,  i8y^]y  Thursday. 
I  HAVE  been  staying  in  town,  and  could  not  write  a 
word.  It  is  a  fine  strong  night,  full  of  wind;  the  trees 
are  all  crying  out  in  the  darkness ;  funny  to  think  of  the 
birds  asleep  outside,  on  the  tossing  branches,  the  little 
bright  eyes  closed,  the  brave  wings  folded,  the  little  hearts 
that  beat  so  hard  and  thick  (so  much  harder  and  thicker 
than  ever  human  heart)  all  stilled  and  quieted  in  deep 
slumber,  in  the  midst  of  this  noise  and  turmoil.  Why,  it 
will  be  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  sleep  in  here  in  my  walled 
room;  so  loud  and  jolly  the  wind  sounds  through  the 
open  window.  The  unknown  places  of  the  night  invite 
the  travelling  fancy ;  I  like  to  think  of  the  sleeping  towns 
and  sleeping  farm-houses  and  cottages,  all  the  world  over, 
here  by  the  white  road  poplar-lined,  there  by  the  clamor- 
ous surf.     Isn't  that  a  good  dormitive  ? 

Saturday.  —  I  cannot  tell  how  I  feel,  who  can  ever  ?  I 
feel  like  a  person  in  a  novel  of  George  Sand's ;  I  feel  I 
desire  to  go  out  of  the  house,  and  begin  life  anew  in  the 

114 


ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR. 

cool  blue  night;  never  to  come  back  here;  never,  never.  1875 
Only  to  go  out  for  ever  by  sunny  day  and  grey  day,  by  ^^'  ^^ 
bright  night  and  foul,  by  high-way  and  by-way,  town 
and  hamlet,  until  somewhere  by  a  road-side  or  in  some 
clean  inn  clean  death  opened  his  arms  to  me  and  took  me 
to  his  quiet  heart  for  ever.  If  soon,  good ;  if  late,  well 
then,  late  —  there  would  be  many  a  long  bright  mile  be- 
hind me,  many  a  goodly,  many  a  serious  sight ;  I  should 
die  ripe  and  perfect,  and  take  my  garnered  experience 
with  me  into  the  cool,  sweet  earth.  For  I  have  died  al- 
ready and  survived  a  death  ;  I  have  seen  the  grass  grow 
rankly  on  my  grave ;  I  have  heard  the  train  of  mourners 
come  weeping  and  go  laughing  away  again.  And  when  I 
was  alone  there  in  the  kirk-yard,  and  the  birds  began  to 
grow  familiar  with  the  grave-stone,  I  have  begun  to  laugh 
also,  and  laughed  and  laughed  until  night-flowers  came  out 
above  me.  I  have  survived  myself,  and  somehow  live  on, 
a  curious  changeling,  a  merry  ghost ;  and  do  not  mind 
living  on,  finding  it  not  unpleasant ;  only  had  rather,  a 
thousandfold,  died  and  been  done  with  the  whole  damned 
show  for  ever.  It  is  a  strange  feeling  at  first  to  survive 
yourself,  but  one  gets  used  to  that  as  to  most  things.  Et 
puis,  is  it  not  one's  own  fault  ?  Why  did  not  one  lie  still 
in  the  grave  ?  Why  rise  again  among  men's  troubles  and 
toils,  where  the  wicked  wag  their  shock  beards  and  hound 
the  weary  out  to  labour  ?  When  I  was  safe  in  prison, 
and  stone  walls  and  iron  bars  were  an  hermitage  about 
me,  who  told  me  to  burst  the  mild  constraint  and  go  forth 
where  the  sun  dazzles,  and  the  wind  pierces,  and  the 
loud  world  sounds  and  jangles  all  through  the  weary  day  ? 
I  mind  an  old  print  of  a  hermit  coming  out  of  a  great  wood 
towards  evening  and  shading  his  bleared  eyes  to  see  all 

IIS 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1875    the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  before  his  feet,  where  towered 

^^'  ^^  cities  and  castled  hills,  and  stately  rivers,  and  good  corn 

lands  made  one  great  chorus  of  temptation  for  his  weak 

spirit,  and  I  think  1  am  the  hermit,  and  would  to  God  I 

had  dwelt  ever  in  the  wood  of  penitence' 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

The  two  following  letters  refer  to  the  essay  on  the  Spirit  of  Spring 
which  I  was  careless  enough  to  lose  in  the  process  of  a  change  of  rooms 
at  Cambridge.  The  Petits  Pohmes  en  Prose  were  attempts,  not  alto- 
gether successful,  in  the  form  though  not  in  the  spirit  of  Baudelaire. 

SWANSTON  [Autumn,  187^]. 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  Thanks.  Only  why  don't  you 
tell  me  if  I  can  get  my  Spring  printed  ?  I  want  to  print 
it ;  because  it  *s  nice,  and  genuine  to  boot,  and  has  got  less 
side  on  than  my  other  game.    Besides  I  want  coin  badly. 

I  am  writing  Petits  Podmes  en  Prose.  Their  principal 
resemblance  to  Baudelaire's  is  that  they  are  rather  longer 
and  not  quite  so  good.  They  are  ve-ry  cle-ver  (words  of 
two  syllables),  O  so  aw-ful-ly  cle-ver  (words  of  three),  O 
so  dam-na-bly  cle-ver  (words  of  a  devil  of  a  number  of  syl- 
lables) .  1  have  written  fifteen  in  a  fortnight.  I  have  also 
written  some  beautiful  poetry.  I  would  like  a  cake  and  a 
cricket-bat ;  and  a  passkey  to  Heaven  if  you  please,  and 
as  much  money  as  my  friend  the  Baron  Rothschild  can 
spare.  I  used  to  look  across  to  Rothschild  of  a  morning 
when  we  were  brushing  our  hair,  and  say  —  (this  is  quite 
true,  only  we  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and 
though  1  used  to  look  over  I  cannot  say  I  ever  detected 
»  The  letter  breaks  off  here. 
116 


ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR 

the  beggar,  he  feared  to  meet  my  eagle  eye)  —  well,  I  used  1875 
to  say  to  him,  **  Rothschild,  old  man,  lend  us  five  hundred  ^^'  ^^ 
francs,"  and  it  is  characteristic  of  Rothy's  dry  humour 
that  he  used  never  to  reply  when  it  was  a  question 
of  money.  He  was  a  very  humorous  dog  indeed,  was 
Rothy.  Heigh-ho  !  those  happy  old  days.  Funny,  funny 
fellow,  the  dear  old  Baron. 

How  's  that  for  genuine  American  wit  and  humour  ? 
Take  notice  of  this  in  your  answer ;  say,  for  instance, 
**Even  although  the  letter  had  been  unsigned,  I  could 
have  had  no  difficulty  in  guessing  who  was  my  dear, 
lively,  witty  correspondent.     Yours,  Letitia  Languish." 

O !  —  my  mind  has  given  way.  I  have  gone  into  a  mild, 
babbling,  sunny  idiocy.  I  shall  buy  a  Jew's  harp  and  sit 
by  the  roadside  with  a  woman's  bonnet  on  my  manly 
head  begging  my  honest  livelihood.    Meantime,  adieu. 

r  would  send  you  some  of  these  PP.  Podmes  of  mine, 
only  I  know  you  would  never  acknowledge  receipt  or  re- 
turn them. —  Yours,  and  Rothschild's, 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 


To  Mrs.  Sitwell 

The  review  of  Robert  Browning's  Inn  Album  here  mentioned 
appears  in  Vanity  Fair,  Dec.  11,  1875.  The  matter  of  the  poem  is 
praised  ;  the  "  slating"  is  only  for  the  form  and  metres. 

[Edinburgh,  December,  187^.] 

Well,  I  api  hardy  !  Here  I  am  in  the  midst  of  this  great 

snowstorm,  sleeping  with  my  window  open  and  smoking 

in  my  cold  tub  in  the  morning  so  as  it  would  do  your  heart 

good  to  see.     Moreover  I  am  in  pretty  good  form  other- 

117 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1878    wise.    Fontainehleau  lags ;  it  has  turned  out  more  difficult 
^^'  ^^  than  I  expected  in  some  places,  but  there  is  a  deal  of  it 
ready,  and  (I  think)  straight. 

I  was  at  a  concert  on  Saturday  and  heard  Hall€  and 
Norman  Neruda  play  that  Sonata  of  Beethoven's  you 
remember,  and  I  felt  very  funny.  But  I  went  and  took  a 
long  spanking  walk  in  the  dark  and  got  quite  an  appetite 
for  dinner.    I  did ;  that 's  not  bragging. 

As  you  say,  a  concert  wants  to  be  gone  to  with  some 
one,  and  I  know  who.  I  have  done  rather  an  amusing 
paragraph  or  two  for  Canity  Pair  on  the  Inn  Album.  I 
have  slated  R.  B.  pretty  handsomely.  I  am  in  a  desperate 
hurry ;  so  good-bye.  — Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Thomas  Stevenson 

Cafe  de  la  Source,  Bd.  St.  Michel, 
Paris,  i^th  Feb,,  1878. 
MY  DEAR  FATHER, — A  thought  has  come  into  my  head 
which  I  think  would  interest  you.  Christianity  is,  among 
other  things,  a  very  wise,  noble,  and  strange  doctrine  of 
life.  Nothing  is  so  difficult  to  specify  as  the  position  it 
occupies  with  regard  to  asceticism.  It  is  not  ascetic. 
Christ  was  of  all  doctors  (if  you  will  let  me  use  the  word) 
one  of  the  least  ascetic.  And  yet  there  is  a  theory  of 
living  in  the  Gospels  which  is  curiously  indefinable,  and 
leans  towards  asceticism  on  one  side,  although  it  leans 
away  from  it  on  the  other.  In  fact,  asceticism  is  used 
therein  as  a  means,  not  as  an  end.  The  wisdom  of  this 
world  consists  in  making  oneself  very  little  in  order  to 
avoid  many  knocks;  in  preferring  others,  in  order  that, 

118 


ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR 

even  when  we  lose,  we  shall  find  some  pleasure  in  the  1S78 
event;  in  putting  our  desires  outside  of  ourselves,  in  an-  ^^'  ^^ 
other  ship,  so  to  speak,  so  that,  when  the  worst  happens, 
there  will  be  something  left.  You  see,  I  speak  of  it  as  a 
doctrine  of  life,  and  as  a  wisdom  for  this  world.  People 
must  be  themselves,  I  suppose.  I  feel  every  day  as  if 
religion  had  a  greater  interest  for  me ;  but  that  interest  is 
still  centred  on  the  little  rough-and-tumble  world  in  which 
our  fortunes  are  cast  for  the  moment.  I  cannot  transfer 
my  interests,  not  even  my  religious  interest,  to  any  different 
sphere.  ...  I  have  had  some  sharp  lessons  and  some 
very  acute  sufferings  in  these  last  seven-and-twenty  years 
—  more  even  than  you  would  guess.  1  begin  to  grow  an 
old  man ;  a  little  sharp,  I  fear,  and  a  little  close  and  un- 
friendly ;  but  still  I  have  a  good  heart,  and  believe  in  my- 
self and  my  fellow-men  and  the  God  who  made  us  all.  .  . . 
There  are  not  many  sadder  people  in  this  world,  perhaps, 
than  I.  I  have  my  eye  on  a  sickbed;*  1  have  written 
letters  to-day  that  it  hurt  me  to  write,  and  I  fear  will  hurt 
others  to  receive ;  I  am  lonely  and  sick  and  out  of  heart. 
Well,  I  still  hope;  1  still  believe;  I  still  see  the  good  in 
the  inch,  and  cling  to  it.  It  is  not  much,  perhaps,  but  it 
is  always  something. 

I  find  I  have  wandered  a  thousand  miles  from  what  1 
meant.  It  was  this :  of  all  passages  bearing  on  Christian- 
ity in  that  form  of  a  worldly  wisdom,  the  most  Christian, 
and  so  to  speak-  the  key  of  the  whole  position,  is  the 
Christian  doctrine  of  revenge.  And  it  appears  that  this 
came  into  the  world  through  Paul !  There  is  a  fact  for 
you.  It  was  to  speak  ©f  this  that  I  began  this  letter ;  but 
1  have  got  into  deep  seas  and  must  go  on. 

>  R.  Glasgow  Brown  lay  dying  in  the  Riviera. 
119 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1879        There  is  a  fine  text  in  -the  Bible,  I  don't  know  where, 

/ET     28 

to  the  effect  that  all  things  work  together  for  good  to  those 
who  love  the  Lord.  Strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you, 
everything  has  been,  in  one  way  or  the  other,  bringing 
me  a  little  nearer  to  what  I  think  you  would  like  me  to 
be.  'T  is  a  strange  world,  indeed,  but  there  is  a  manifest 
God  for  those  who  care  to  look  for  him. 

This  is  a  very  solemn  letter  for  my  surroundings  in  this 
busy  cafd;  but  I  had  it  on  my  heart  to  write  it;  and,  in- 
deed, I  was  out  of  the  humour  for  anything  lighter. 
Ever  your  affectionate  son, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

P.S. — While  I  am  writing  gravely,  let  me  say  one 
word  more.  I  have  taken  a  step  towards  more  intimate 
relations  with  you.  But  don't  expect  too  much  of  me. 
Try  to  take  me  as  I  am.  This  is  a  rare  moment,  and  I 
have  profited  by  it;  but  take  it  as  a  rare  moment.  Usu- 
ally I  hate  to  speak  of  what  I  really  feel,  to  that  extent 
that  when  I  find  myself  cornered^  I  have  a  tendency  to  say 
the  reverse.  R.  L.  S. 


TO  MISS  Jane  Whyte  Balfour 

This  correspondent,  the  long-lived  spinster  among  the  Balfour  sisters 
(died  1907,  aged  91)  and  well-beloved  "auntie"  of  a  numerous  clan  of 
nephews  and  nieces,  is  the  subject  of  the  set  of  verses,  Auntie's 
Skirts,  in  the  Child's  Garden.     She  had  been  reading  Travels  with  a 
Donkey  on  its  publication. 

[SWANSTON,  y«W^,  1879,] 
MY  DEAR  AUNTIE,  —  If  you  could  only  think  a  little  less 
of  me  and  others,  and  a  great  deal  more  of  your  delight- 

120 


ADVOCATE  AND  AUTHOR 

ful  self,  you  would  be  as  nearly  perfect  as  there  is  any  1879 
need  to  be.  I  think  I  have  travelled  with  donkeys  all  my 
life ;  and  the  experience  of  this  book  could  be  nothing  new 
to  me.  But  if  ever  I  knew  a  real  donkey,  I  believe  it  is 
yourself.  You  are  so  eager  to  think  well  of  everybody 
else  (except  when  you  are  angry  on  account  of  some  third 
person)  that  I  do  not  believe  you  have  ever  left  yourself 
time  to  think  properly  of  yourself.  You  never  under- 
stand when  other  people  are  unworthy,  nor  when  you 
yourself  are  worthy  in  the  highest  degree.  Oblige  us 
all  by  having  a  guid  conceit  0'  yoursel  and  despising  in 
the  future  the  whole  crowd,  including  your  affectionate 
nephew,  R.  L.  S. 


IV 

THE  AMATEUR   EMIGRANT 

MONTEREY   AND   SAN    FRANCISCO 

(JULY,  1879-JULY,  1880) 


IV 

THE  AMATEUR   EMIGRANT 
MONTEREY   AND   SAN    FRANCISCO 
(July,  1879-JuLY,  1880) 

To  Sidney  Colvin  ^^^79 

/ET.   29 

MONTEREY  [December,  i8yg\. 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  I  have  been  down  with  pleurisy 
but  now  convalesce ;  it  was  a  slight  attack,  but  I  had  a 
hot  fever;  pulse  150;  and  the  thing  reminds  me  of  my 
weakness.  These  miseries  tell  on  me  cruelly.  But  things 
are  not  so  hopeless  as  they  might  be,  so  I  am  far  from  de- 
spair. Besides  I  think  I  may  say  I  have  some  courage  for 
life. 

But  now  look  here : 

Fables  and  Tales 

Story  of  a  Lie icx)  pp.  like  the  Donkey. 

Providence  and  the  Guitar     .       52 

Will  o'  the  Mill 45 

A  Lodging  for  the  Night    .     .       40  (about). 
Sieur  de  Mal^troit's  Door  .     .      42 


say  280  pp.  in  all. 

Here  is  my  scheme.     Henley  already  proposed  that  Cal- 
decott  should  illustrate  Will  0*  the  Mill,    The  Guitar  is 

125 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1879  still  more  suited  to  him ;  he  should  make  delicious  things 
^^'  ^^  for  that.  And  though  the  Lie  is  not  much  in  the  way  for 
pictures,  I  should  like  to  see  my  dear  Admiral  in  the  flesh. 
I  love  the  Admiral ;  I  give  my  head,  that  man  *s  alive. 
As  for  the  other  two,  they  need  not  be  illustrated  at  all 
unless  he  likes. 

Is  this  a  dream  altogether  ?  I  would  if  necessary  ask 
nothing  down  for  the  stories,  and  only  a  small  royalty  but 
to  begin  from  the  first  copy  sold. 

I  hate  myself  for  being  always  on  business.  But  I  can- 
not help  my  fears  and  anxieties  about  money ;  even  if  all 
came  well,  it  would  be  many  a  long  day  before  we  could 
afford  to  leave  this  coast.  Is  it  true  that  the  Donkey  is  in 
a  second  edition?  That  should  bring  some  money,  too, 
ere  long,  though  not  much  I  dare  say.  You  will  see  the 
Guitar  is  made  for  Caldecott ;  moreover  it 's  a  little  thing 
I  like.  I  am  no  lover  of  either  of  the  things  in  Temple 
Bar;  but  they  will  make  up  the  volume,  and  perhaps 
others  may  like  them  better  than  I  do.  They  say  repub- 
lished stories  do  not  sell.  Well,  that  is  why  I  am  in  a 
hurry  to  get  this  out.  The  public  must  be  educated  to 
buy  mine  or  I  shall  never  make  a  cent.  I  have  heaps  of 
short  stories  in  view.  The  next  volume  will  probably  be 
called  Stories,  or  A  Story-Book,  and  contain  quite  a  different 
lot :  TJie  Pavilion  on  the  Links:  Professor  Rensselaer:  The 
Dead  Man's  Letter:  The  Wild  Man  of  the  Woods:  The 
Devil  on  Cramond  Sands,  They  would  all  be  carpentry 
stories ;  pretty  grim  for  the  most  part ;  but  of  course  that 's 
all  in  the  air  as  yet. — Yours  ever,  R.  L.  S. 


126 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

1879 
TO  W.   E.   HENLEY  '^'■*  ^^ 

MONTEREY,  December  11  thy  i8yg. 
MY  DEAR  HENLEY, — Many,  many  thanks  for  your  long 
letter.     And  now  to  rectifications:  — 

1 .  You  are  wrong  about  the  Lie,  from  choosing  a  wrong 
standard.  Compare  it  with  my  former  stories,  not  with 
Scott,  or  Fielding,  or  Balzac,  or  Charles  Reade,  or  even 
Wilkie  Collins ;  and  where  will  you  find  anything  half  or 
a  tenth  part  as  good  as  the  Admiral,  or  even  Dick,  or  even 
the  Squire,  or  even  Esther  ?  If  you  had  thought  of  that, 
you  would  have  complimented  me  for  advance.  But  you 
were  not  quite  sincere  with  yourself ;  you  were  seeking 
arguments  to  make  me  devote  myself  to  plays,  unbe- 
known, of  course,  to  yourself. 

2.  Plays,  dear  boy,  are  madness  for  me  just  now.  The 
best  play  is  hopeless  before  six  months,  and  more  likely 
eighteen  for  outsiders  like  you  and  me.  And  understand 
me,  I  have  to  get  money  sooriy  or  it  has  no  further  interest 
for  me  ;  I  am  nearly  through  my  capital ;  with  what  pluck 
I  can  muster  against  great  anxieties  and  in  a  very  shattered 
state  of  health,  I  am  trying  to  do  things  that  will  bring  in 
money  soon ;  and  I  could  not,  if  I  were  not  mad,  step  out 
of  my  way  to  work  at  what  might  perhaps  bring  me  in 
more,  but  months  ahead.  Journalism,  you  know  well,  is 
not  my  forte ;  yet  if  I  could  only  get  a  roving  commission 
from  a  paper,  I  should  leap  at  it  and  send  them  goodish 
(no  more  than  that)  goodish  stuff. 

As  for  my  poor  literature,  dear  Henley,  you  must  ex- 
pect for  a  time  to  find  it  worse  and  worse.  Perhaps,  if 
God  favours  me  a  little  at  last,  it  will  pick  up  again.  Now 
J  am  fighting  with  both  hands,  a  hard  battle,  and  my  work, 

127 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1879  while  it  will  be  as  good  as  I  can  make  it,  will  probably  be 
^'^'  ^^  worth  twopence.  If  you  despised  the  Donkey ,  dear  boy, 
you  should  have  told  me  so  at  the  time,  not  reserved  it  for 
a  sudden  revelation  just  now  when  I  am  down  in  health, 
wealth,  and  fortune.  But  I  am  glad  you  have  said  so  at 
last.  Never,  please,  delay  such  confidences  any  more.  If 
they  come  quickly,  they  are  a  help ;  if  they  come  after 
long  silence,  they  feel  almost  like  a  taunt. 

Now,  to  read  all  this,  any  one  would  think  you  had 
written  unkindly,  which  is  not  so,  as  God  who  made  us 
knows.  But  I  wished  to  put  myself  right  ere  I  went  on 
to  state  myself.  Nothing  has  come  but  the  volume  of 
Labiche ;  the  Burns  I  have  now  given  up ;  the  P.  O.  author- 
ities plainly  regard  it  as  contraband;  make  no  further 
efforts  in  that  direction.  But,  please,  if  anything  else  of 
mine  appears,  see  that  my  people  have  a  copy.  I  hoped  and 
supposed  my  own  copy  would  go  as  usual  to  the  old  ad- 
dress, and,  let  me  use  Scotch,  I  was  fair  affrontit  when  I 
found  this  had  not  been  done. 

You  have  not  told  me  how  you  are  and  I  heard  you  had 
not  been  well.     Please  remedy  this. 

The  end  of  life  }  Yes,  Henley,  I  can  tell  you  what  that 
is.  How  old  are  all  truths,  and  yet  how  far  from  com- 
monplace; old,  strange,  and  inexplicable,  like  the  Sphinx. 
So  I  learn  day  by  day  the  value  and  high  doctrinality  of 
suffering.  Let  me  suffer  always ;  not  more  than  I  am  able 
to  bear,  for  that  makes  a  man  mad,  as  hunger  drives  the 
wolf  to  sally  from  the  forest ;  but  still  to  suffer  some,  and 
never  to  sink  up  to  my  eyes  in  comfort  and  grow  dead  in 
virtues  and  respectability.  I  am  a  bad  man  by  nature,  I 
suppose ;  but  I  cannot  be  good  without  suffering  a  little. 
And  the  end  of  life,  you  will  ask  ?    The  pleasurable  death 

128 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

of  self:  a  thing  not  to  be  attained,  because  it  is  a  thing  1880 
belonging  to  Heaven.  All  this  apropos  of  that  good,  weak,  '  ^^ 
feverish,  fine  spirit, .  ^e  have  traits  in  com- 
mon ;  we  have  almost  the  same  strength  and  weakness 
intermingled ;  and  if  I  had  not  come  through  a  very  hot 
crucible,  I  should  be  just  as  feverish.  My  sufferings  have 
been  healthier  than  his ;  mine  have  been  always  a  choice, 
where  a  man  could  be  manly :  his  have  been  so  too,  if  he 
knew  it,  but  were  not  so  upon  the  face ;  hence  a  morbid 
strain,  which  his  wounded  vanity  has  helped  to  embitter. 

I  wonder  why  1  scratch  every  one  to-day.  And  1  believe 
it  is  because  I  am  conscious  of  so  much  truth  in  your  stric- 
tures on  my  damned  stuff.  I  don't  care;  there  is  some- 
thing in  me  worth  saying,  though  1  can't  find  what  it  is  just 
yet;  and  ere  I  die,  if  I  do  not  die  too  fast,  I  shall  write  some- 
thing worth  the  boards,  which  with  scarce  an  exception  I 
have  not  yet  done.  At  the  same  time,  dear  boy,  in  a  mat- 
ter of  vastly  more  importance  than  Opera  Omnia  Ludovici 
Stevenson,  1  mean  my  life,  I  have  not  been  a  perfect  cad ; 
God  help  me  to  be  less  and  less  so  as  the  days  go  on. 

The  Emigrant  is  net  good,  and  will  never  do  for  P.M.G., 
though  it  must  have  a  kind  of  rude  interest. 

R.  L.  S. 

1  am  now  quite  an  American — yellow  envelopes. 


to  w.  e.  henley 

608  Bush  Street, 
San  Francisco y  January,  1880, 
MY  DEAR  HENLEY,— You  have  got  a  letter  ahead  of  me, 
owing  to  the  Alpine  accumulation  of  ill  news  I  had  to  stag- 
ger under.    I  will  stand  no  complaints  of  my  correspond- 

129 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1880    ence  from  England,  I  having  written  near  half  as  many 
^^'  ^9  letters  again  as  I  have  received. 

Do  not  damp  me  about  my  work ;  qu'elle  soit  bonne  ou 
mauvaise,  it  has  to  be  done.  You  know  the  wolf  is  at  the 
door,  and  I  have  been  seriously  ill.  I  am  now  at  Thoreau. 
I  almost  blame  myself  for  persevering  in  anything  so  diffi- 
cult under  the  circumstances :  but  it  may  set  me  up  again 
in  style,  which  is  the  great  point.  I  have  now  £Zo  in  the 
world  and  two  houses  to  keep  up  for  an  indefinite  period. 
It  is  odd  to  be  on  so  strict  a  regimen ;  it  is  a  week  for 
instance  since  I  have  bought  myself  a  drink,  and  unless 
times  change,  I  do  not  suppose  I  shall  ever  buy  myself 
another.  The  health  improves.  The  Pied  Piper  is  an 
idea;  it  shall  have  my  thoughts,  and  so  shall  you.  The 
character  of  the  P.  P.  would  be  highly  comic,  I  seem  to 
see.  Had  you  looked  at  the  Pavilion y  I  do  not  think  you 
would  have  sent  it  to  Stephen ;  't  is  a  mere  story,  and  has 
no  higher  pretension :  Dibbs  is  its  name,  I  wish  it  was  its 
nature  also.  The  Vendettay  at  which  you  ignorantly  puff 
out  your  lips,  is  a  real  novel,  though  not  a  good  one.  As 
soon  as  I  have  found  strength  to  finish  the  Emigrant^  I 
shall  also  finish  the  Vend,  and  draw  a  breath — I  wish  I 
could  say,  **and  draw  a  cheque."  My  spirits  have  risen 
contra  fartunam ;  I  will  fight  this  out,  and  conquer.  You 
are  all  anxious  to  have  me  home  in  a  hurry.  There  are 
two  or  three  objections  to  that ;  but  I  shall  instruct  you 
more  at  large  when  I  have  time,  for  to-day  1  am  hunted, 
having  a  pile  of  letters  before  me.  Yet  it  is  already  draw- 
ing into  dusk.— Yours  affectionately,  R.  L.  S. 


130 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

1880 

TO  W.  E.  HENLEY  '''''  ^^ 

The  Dook  de  Karneel  (=  Cornhill)  and  Marky  de  Stephen  is  of 
course  Mr.  LesHe  Stephen.  The  "  blood  and  thunder"  is  The  Pavilion 
on  the  Links.  Hester  Noble  and  Don  Juan  were  the  titles  of  two  plays 
planned  and  begun  with  W.  E.  Henley  the  previous  winter.  They  were 
never  finished.  The  French  novels  mentioned  are  by  Joseph  Mery.  The 
Dialogue  on  Character  and  Destiny  still  exists  in  a  fragmentary  condi- 
tion.    George  the  Pieman  is  a  character  in  Deacon  Brodie. 

608  Bush  Street, 
San  Francisco,  January  2^dy  1880. 

MY  DEAR  HENLEY, —That  was  good  news.  The  Dook 
de  Karneel,  K.C.B.,  taken  a  blood  and  thunder !  Well,  I 
thought  it  had  points ;  now,  I  know  it.  And  Tm  to  see  a 
proof  once  more !  O  Glory  Hallelujah,  how  beautiful  is 
proof.  And  how  distressed  that  author  man  who  dwells  too 
far  aloof.  His  favourite  words  he  always  finds  his  friends 
misunderstand.  With  oaths,  he  reads  his  articles,  moist 
brow  and  clenched  hand.  Impromtoo.  The  last  line  first- 
rate.  When  may  I  hope  to  see  the  Deacon?  I  pine  for 
the  Deacon y  for  proofs  of  the  Pavilion — O  and  for  a  cate- 
gorical confession  from  you  that  the  second  edition  of  the 
Donkey  was  a  false  alarm,  which  I  conclude  from  hearing 
no  more. 

1  have  twice  written  to  the  Marky  de  Stephen;  each 
time  with  one  of  my  bright  papers,  so  I  should  hear  from 
him  soon.  How  are  Baron  Payn,  Sir  Robert  de  Bob,  and 
other  members  of  the  Aristocracy  ? 

Here  *s  breid  an'  wine  an'  kebbuck  an'  canty  cracks  at  e'en 
To  the  folks  that  mind  0'  me  when  1  'm  awa'. 

But  them  that  hae  forgot  me,  O  ne'er  to  be  forgi'en — 
They  may  a'  gae  tapsalteerie  in  a  raw ! 

131 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1880  I  have  mighty  little  to  say,  dear  boy,  to  seem  worth  2^d. 
^  '  ^^  \  have  thought  of  the  Piper,  but  he  does  not  seem  to  come 
as  yet ;  I  get  him  too  metaphysical.  I  shall  make  a  shot 
for  Hester y  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  the  Emigrant  and  the 
Vendetta  and  perhaps  my  Dialogue  on  Character  and  Des- 
tiny, Hester  and  Don  Juan  are  the  two  that  smile  on  me ; 
but  I  will  touch  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  play  until  I  have 
made  my  yearns  income  sure.  You  understand,  and  you 
see  that  I  am  right  ? 

I  have  read  M.  Auguste  and  the  Crime  inconnu,  being 
now  abonne  to  a  library,  and  found  them  very  readable, 
highly  ingenious,  and  so  French  that  I  could  not  keep  my 
gravity.  The  Damned  Ones  of  the  Indies  now  occupy  my 
attention  ;  I  have  myself  already  damned  them  repeatedly. 
I  am,  as  you  know,  the  original  person  the  wheels  of 
whose  chariot  tarried  ;  but  though  I  am  so  slow,  I  am 
rootedly  tenacious.  Do  not  despair.  Hester  2ind  the  Don 
are  sworn  in  my  soul ;  and  they  shall  be. 

Is  there  no  news  ?  Real  news,  newsy  news.  Heavenly 
blue,  this  is  strange.  Remember  me  to  the  lady  of  the 
Cawstle,  my  toolip,  and  ever  was, 

George  the  Pieman. 


To  Edmund  Gosse 

608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco, 
California,  Jan.  25,  1880. 
MY  DEAR  AND  KIND  WEG,  —  It  was  a  lesson  in  philoso- 
phy that  would  have  moved  a  bear,  to  receive  your  letter 
in  my  present  temper.    For  I  am  now  well  and  well  at  my 
ease,  both  by  comparison.    First,  my  health  has  turned  a 

132 


JET.  29 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

corner;  it  was  not  consumption  this  time,  though  con-  jfSSo 
sumption  it  has  to  be  some  time,  as  all  my  kind  friends 
sing  to  me,  day  in,  day  out.  Consumption !  how  I  hate 
that  word;  yet  it  can  sound  innocent,  as,  e,g,y  consump- 
tion of  military  stores.  What  was  wrong  with  me,  apart 
from  colds  and  little  pleuritic  flea-bites,  was  a  lingering 
malaria;  and  that  is  now  greatly  overcome.  I  eat  once 
more,  which  is  a  great  amusement  and,  they  say,  good  for 
the  health.  Second,  many  of  the  thunderclouds  that  were 
overhanging  me  when  last  1  wrote,  have  silently  stolen 
away  like  Longfellow's  Arabs :  and  I  am  now  engaged  to 
be  married  to  the  woman  whom  I  have  loved  for  three 
years  and  a  half.  1  do  not  yet  know  when  the  marriage 
can  come  off;  for  there  are  many  reasons  for  delay.  But 
as  few  people  before  marriage  have  known  each  other  so 
long  or  made  more  trials  of  each  other's  tenderness  and 
constancy,  1  permit  myself  to  hope  some  quiet  at  the  end 
of  all.  At  least  I  will  boast  myself  so  far;  1  do  not  think 
many  wives  are  better  loved  than  mine  will  be.  Third 
and  last,  in  the  order  of  what  has  changed  my  feelings, 
my  people  have  cast  me  off,  and  so  that  thundercloud,  as 
you  may  almost  say,  has  overblown.  You  know  more 
than  most  people  whether  or  not  1  loved  my  father.* 

» In  reference  to  the  father's  estrangement  at  this  time,  Sir  James 
Dewar,  an  old  friend  of  the  elder  Stevenson,  tells  a  story  which  would 
have  touched  R.  L.  S.  infinitely  had  he  heard  it.  Sir  James  (then  Profes- 
sor) Dewar  and  Mr.  Thomas  Stevenson  were  engaged  together  on  some 
official  scientific  work  near  Duns  in  Berwickshire.  "  Spending  the  even- 
ing together,"  writes  Sir  James,  "at  an  hotel  in  Berwick-on-Tweed, 
the  two,  after  a  long  day's  work,  fell  into  close  fireside  talk  over  their 
toddy,  and  Mr.  Stevenson  opened  his  heart  upon  what  was  to  him  a 
very  sore  grievance.  He  spoke  with  anger  and  dismay  of  his  son's 
journey  and  intentions,  his  desertion  of  the  old  firm,  and  taking  to  the 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1880  These  things  are  sad ;  nor  can  any  man  forgive  himself  for 
*  ^^  bringing  them  about;  yet  they  are  easier  to  meet  in  fact 
than  by  anticipation.  1  almost  trembled  whether  1  was 
doing  right,  until  I  was  fairly  summoned ;  then,  when  I 
found  that  I  was  not  shaken  one  jot,  that  I  could  grieve, 
that  I  could  sharply  blame  myself,  for  the  past,  and  yet 
never  hesitate  one  second  as  to  my  conduct  in  the  future, 
I  believe  my  cause  was  just  and  I  leave  it  with  the  Lord. 
I  certainly  look  for  no  reward,  nor  any  abiding  city  either 
here  or  hereafter,  but  1  please  myself  with  hoping  that  my 
father  will  not  always  think  so  badly  of  my  conduct  nor 
so  very  slightingly  of  my  affection  as  he  does  at  present. 
You  may  now  understand  that  the  quiet  economical 
citizen  of  San  Francisco  who  now  addresses  you,  a  bon- 
homme  given  to  cheap  living,  early  to  bed  though  scarce 
early  to  rise  in  proportion  (que  diable !  let  us  have  style, 
anyway)  busied  with  its  little  bits  of  books  and  essays 
and  with  a  fair  hope  for  the  future,  is  no  longer  the  same 
desponding,  invalid  son  of  a  doubt  and  an  apprehension 

%       who  last  wrote  to  you  from  Monterey.     I  am  none  the 

devious  and  barren  paths  of  literature.  The  Professor  took  up  the  cud- 
gels in  the  son's  defence,  and  at  last,  by  way  of  ending  the  argument, 
half  jocularly  offered  to  wager  that  in  ten  years  from  that  moment 
R.  L.  S.  would  be  earning  a  bigger  income  than  the  old  firm  had  ever 
commanded.  To  his  surprise,  the  father  became  furious,  and  repulsed 
all  attempts  at  reconciliation.  But  six  and  a  half  years  later,  Mr.  Ste- 
venson, broken  in  health,  came  to  London  to  seek  medical  advice,  and 
although  so  feeble  that  he  had  to  be  lifted  out  and  into  his  cab,  called 
at  the  Royal  Institute  to  see  the  Professor.  He  said  :  '  I  am  here  to  con- 
sult a  doctor,  but  I  couldna  be  in  London  without  coming  to  shake  your 
hand  and  confess  that  you  were  richt  after  a'  about  Louis,  and  I  was 
wrang.'  The  frail  old  frame  shook  with  emotion,  and  he  muttered, 
*  I  ken  this  is  my  last  visit  to  the  south.'  A  few  weeks  later  he  was 
dead." 

X34 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

less  warmly  obliged  to  you  and  Mrs.  Gosse  for  your  good  1880 
words.  I  suppose  that  I  am  the  devil  (hearing  it  so  often),  ^^'  ^^ 
but  I  am  not  ungrateful.  Only  please,  Weg,  do  not  talk 
of  genius  about  me ;  I  do  not  think  I  want  for  a  certain 
talent,  but  I  am  heartily  persuaded  I  have  none  of  the 
other  commodity ;  so  let  that  stick  to  the  wall :  you  only 
shame  me  by  such  friendly  exaggerations. 

When  shall  I  be  married  ?  When  shall  I  be  able  to  re- 
turn to  England  ?  When  shall  I  join  the  good  and  blessed 
in  a  forced  march  upon  the  New  Jerusalem  ?  That  is 
what  1  know  not  in  any  degree ;  some  of  them,  let  us  hope, 
will  come  early,  some  after  a  judicious  Interval.  I  have 
three  little  strangers  knocking  at  the  door  of  Leslie 
Stephen :  The  Pavilion  on  the  Links y  a  blood  and  thunder 
story,  accepted;  Yoshida  Torajiro,  a  paper  on  a  Japanese 
hero  who  will  warm  your  blood,  postulant;  and  Henty 
David  Thoreau:  his  character  and  o^wibws— postulant 
also.  I  give  you  these  hints  knowing  you  to  love  the 
best  literature,  that  you  may  keep  an  eye  at  the=  mast- 
head for  these  little  tit-bits.  Write  again,  and  soon,  and 
at  greater  length  to  your  friend.  —  Your  friend, 

(signed)    R.  L.  S. 


TO  Professor  Meiklejohn 

One  day  at  the  Savile  Club,  Stevenson,  hearing  a  certain  laugh,  cried 
out  that  he  must  know  the  laugher,  who  turned  out  to  be  a  fellow- 
countryman,  the  late  John  Meiklejohn,  the  well-known  educational 
authority  and  professor  at  St.  Andrews  University.  Stevenson  intro- 
duced himself,  and  the  two  became  firm  friends.  Allusion  was  made  a 
few  pages  back  to  a  letter  from  Professor  Meiklejohn  about  the  Burns 
essay. 

135 


letters  of  r.  l.  stevenson 

1880  608  Bush  Street,  San  Francisco, 

^'^'  ""^  California,  Feb,  ist,  1880. 

My  dear  MEIKLEJOHN,  — You  must  think  me  a  thank- 
less fellow  by  this  time ;  but  if  you  knew  how  harassed 
and  how  sick  I  had  been,  and  how  I  have  twice  begun  to 
write  to  you  already,  you  might  condescend  to  forgive  the 
puir  gangrel  body.  To  tell  you  what  I  have  been  doing, 
thinking,  and  coming  through  these  six  or  seven  months 
would  exhilarate  nobody:  least  of  all  me.  Infandum 
jubeSy  so  I  hope  you  won't.  I  have  done  a  great  deal  of 
work,  but  perhaps  my  health  of  mind  and  body  should 
not  let  me  expect  much  from  what  I  have  done.  At  least 
I  have  turned  the  corner ;  my  feet  are  on  the  rock  again, 
I  believe,  and  I  shall  continue  to  pour  forth  pure  and 
wholesome  literature  for  the  masses  as  per  invoice. 

I  am  glad  you  liked  Burns;  I  think  it  is  the  best  thing 
I  ever  did.  Did  not  the  national  vanity  exclaim?  Do 
you  know  what  Shairp  thought  ?  I  think  I  let  him  down 
gently*,  did  I  not.? 

I  have  done  a  Thoreau,  which  I  hope  you  may  like, 
though  I  have  a  feeling  that  perhaps  it  might  be  better. 
Please  look  out  for  a  little  paper  called  Yoshida  Torajiro, 
which,  I  hope,  will  appear  in  Cornhill  ere  very  long;  the 
subject,  at  least,  will  interest  you.  I  am  to  appear  in  the 
same  magazine  with  a  real  **  blood  and  bones  in  the  name 
of  God"  story.  Why  Stephen  took  it,  is  to  me  a  mys- 
tery ;  anyhow,  it  was  fun  to  write,  and  if  you  can  interest 
a  person  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  you  have  not  been  idle. 
When  I  suffer  in  mind,  stories  are  my  refuge;  I  take  them 
like  opium ;  and  I  consider  one  who  writes  them  as  a  sort 
of  doctor  of  the  mind.  And  frankly,  Meiklejohn,  it  is  not 
Shakespeare  we  take  to,  when  we  are  in  a  hot  corner; 

136 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

nor,  certainly,  George  Eliot — no,  nor  even  Balzac.  It  is  1880 
Charles  R^-ade  or  old  Dumas,  or  the  Arabian  NightSy  or  ^^'  ^^ 
the  best  of  Walter  Scott;  it  is  stories  we  want,  not  the 
high  poetic  function  which  represents  the  world ;  we  are 
then  like  the  Asiatic  with  his  improvisatore  or  the  middle- 
agee  with  his  trouv^re.  We  want  incident,  interest,  action : 
to  the  devil  with  your  philosophy.  When  we  are  well  again, 
and  have  an  easy  mind,  we  shall  peruse  your  important 
work;  but  what  we  want  now  is  a  drug.  So  I,  when  I 
am  ready  to  go  beside  myself,  stick  my  head  into  a  story- 
book, as  the  ostrich  with  her  bush ;  let  fate  and  fortune 
meantime  belabour  my  posteriors  at  their  will. 

I  have  not  seen  the  Spectator  article ;  nobody  sent  it  to 
me.  If  you  had  an  old  copy  lying  by  you,  you  would  be 
very  good  to  despatch  it  to  me.  A  little  abuse  from 
my  grandmamma  would  do  me  good  in  health,  if  not  in 
morals. 

This  is  merely  to  shake  hands  with  you  and  give  you 
the  top  of  the  morning  in  1 880.  But  I  look  to  be  answered ; 
and  then  I  shall  promise  to  answer  in  return.  For  I  am 
now,  so  far  as  that  can  be  in  this  world,  my  own  man 
again,  and  when  I  have  heard  from  you,  I  shall  be  able  to 
write  more  naturally  and  at  length. 

At  least,  my  dear  Meiklejohn,  I  hope  you  will  believe 
in  the  sincerely  warm  and  friendly  regard  in  which  I  hold 
you,  and  the  pleasure  with  which  I  look  forward,  not  only 
to  hearing  from  you  shortly,  but  to  seeing  you  again  in 
the  flesh  with  another  good  luncheon  and  good  talk.  Tell 
me  when  you  donH  like  my  work.  —  Your  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


137 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1880 

'*^-  29  TO  Sidney  Colvin 

I  had  written  proposing  that  a  collected  volume  of  his  short  stories 
should  be  published  with  illustrations  by  Caldecott.  At  the  end  of  this 
letter  occurs  his  first  allusion  to  his  now  famous  Requiem. 

[608  Bush  Street, 
San  Francisco,  February,  1880.] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  I  received  a  very  nice  letter  from 
you  with  two  enclosures.  I  am  still  unable  to  finish  the 
Emigrant,  although  there  are  only  some  fifteen  pages  to 
do.  The  Vendetta  is,  I  am  afraid,  scarce  Fortnightly  form, 
though  after  the  Pavilion  being  taken  by  Stephen,  I  am 
truly  at  sea  about  all  such  matters.  1  dare  say  my  Prince 
of  Grilnewald — the  name  still  uncertain — would  be  good 
enough  for  anything  if  I  could  but  get  it  done :  I  believe 
that  to  be  a  really  good  story.  The  Vendetta  is  some- 
what cheap  in  motive;  very  rum  and  unlike  the  present 
kind  of  novels  both  for  good  and  evil  in  writing ;  and  on 
the  whole,  only  remarkable  for  the  heroine's  character, 
and  that  I  believe  to  be  in  it. 

1  am  not  well  at  all.  But  hope  to  be  better.  You  know 
I  have  been  hawked  to  death  these  last  months.  And  then 
A.  lived  too  low,  I  fear ;  and  any  way  1  have  got  pretty  low 
and  out  at  elbows  in  health.  1  wish  I  could  say  better, — 
but  I  cannot.  With  a  constitution  like  mine,  you  never 
know — to-morrow  I  may  be  carrying  topgallant  sails  again, 
but  just  at  present  I  am  scraping  along  with  a  jurymast 
and  a  kind  of  amateur  rudder.  Truly  I  have  some  misery, 
as  things  go;  but  these  things  are  mere  detail.  However 
I  do  not  want  to  crever,  claquer,  and  cave  in  just  when  1 
have  a  chance  of  some  happiness;  nor  do  I  mean  to.  All 
the  same,  I  am  more  and  more  in  a  difficulty  how  to  move 

138 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

every  day.  What  a  day  or  an  hour  might  bring  forth,  1880 
God  forbid  that  I  should  prophesy.  Certainly,  do  what  ^^'  ^^ 
you  like  about  the  stories ;  IVill  0'  the  Mill  or  not.  It  will 
be  Caldecott's  book  or  nobody's.  I  am  glad  you  like  the 
Guitar:  I  always  did:  and  I  think  C.  could  make  lovely 
pikters  to  it :  it  almost  seems  as  if  I  must  have  written  it 
for  him  express. 

I  have  already  been  a  visitor  at  the  Club  for  a  fortnight ; 
but  that  's  over,  and  I  don't  much  care  to  renew  the 
period.  I  want  to  be  married,  not  to  belong  to  all  the 
Clubs  in  Christendie.  ...  I  half  think  of  writing  up  the 
Sand-lot  agitation  for  Morley ;  it  is  a  curious  business ; 
were  I  stronger,  I  should  try  to  sugar  in  with  some  of  the 
leaders:  a  chield  amang  'em  takin'  notes;  one,  who  kept 
a  brothel,  I  reckon,  before  she  started  socialist,  particularly 
interests  me.  If  I  am  right  as  to  her  early  industry,  you 
know  she  would  be  sure  to  adore  me.  I  have  been  all 
my  days  a  dead  hand  at  a  harridan,  I  never  saw  the  one 
yet  that  could  resist  me.  When  I  die  of  consumption,  you 
can  put  that  upon  my  tomb. 


Sketch  of  my  tomb  follows: — 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 
born  1850,  of  a  family  of  engineers, 

died 

'*Nitor  aquis." 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

You,  who  pass  this  grave,  put  aside  hatred ;  love  kindness; 
be  all  services  remembered  in  your  heart  and  all  offences 
pardoned ;  and  as  you  go  down  again  among  the  living,  let 

139 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1880    this  be  your  question :  can  I  make  some  one  happier  this 
^  '  ^^  day  before  I  lie  down  to  sleep  ?    Thus  the  dead  man  speaks 
to  you  from  the  dust:  you  will  hear  no  more  from  him. 


Who  knows,  Colvin,  but  I  may  thus  be  of  more  use 
when  I  am  buried  than  ever  when  I  was  alive  ?  The  more 
I  think  of  it,  the  more  earnestly  do  I  desire  this.  I  may 
perhaps  try  to  write  it  better  some  day ;  but  that  is  what 
I  want  in  sense.  The  verses  are  from  a  beayootiful  poem 
by  me.  R.  L.  S. 

TO  J.  W.  FERRIER 

In  the  interval  between  this  letter  and  the  last,  the  writer  had  been 
down  with  an  acute  and  dangerous  illness.  Forester,  here  mentioned, 
was  an  autobiographical  paper  by  J.  W.  F.  on  his  own  boyhood. 

P.O.  San  Francisco,  April  8th,  1880, 
MY  DEAR  FERRIER, — Many  thanks  for  your  letter,  and 
the  instalment  of  Forester  which  accompanied  it,  and 
which  I  read  with  amusement  and  pleasure.  I  fear  Som- 
erset's letter  must  wait;  for  my  dear  boy,  I  have  been 
very  nearly  on  a  longer  voyage  than  usual;  I  am  fresh 
from  giving  Charon  a  quid  instead  of  an  obolus :  but  he, 
having  accepted  the  payment,  scorned  me,  and  I  had  to 
make  the  best  of  my  way  backward  through  the  mallow- 
wood,  with  nothing  to  show  for  this  displacement  but  the 
fatigue  of  the  journey.  As  soon  as  I  feel  fit,  you  shall 
have  the  letter,  trust  me.  But  just  now  even  a  note  such 
as  I  am  now  writing  takes  it  out  of  me.  I  have,  truly, 
been  very  sick ;  I  fear  I  am  a  vain  man,  for  I  thought  it  a 
pity  I  should  die.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  a  good 
many  would  be  disappointed ;  but  for  myself,  although  I 

140 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

still  think  life  a  business  full  of  agreeable  features,  I  was  1880 
not  entirely  unwilling  to  give  it  up.  It  is  so  difficult  to  ^^'  ^^ 
behave  well ;  and  in  that  matter,  I  get  more  dissatisfied 
with  myself,  because  more  exigent,  every  day.  1  shall  be 
pleased  to  hear  again  from  you  soon.  I  shall  be  married 
early  in  May  and  then  go  to  the  mountains,  a  very  with- 
ered bridegroom.  I  think  your  MS.  Bible,  if  that  were 
a  specimen,  would  be  a  credit  to  humanity.  Between 
whiles,  collect  such  thoughts  both  from  yourself  and  others : 
I  somehow  believe  every  man  should  leave  a  Bible  behind 
him, — if  he  is  unable  to  leave  a  jest  book.  I  feel  fit  to 
leave  nothing  but  my  benediction.  It  is  a  strange  thing 
how,  do  what  you  will,  nothing  seems  accomplished.  I 
feel  as  far  from  having  paid  humanity  my  board  and 
lodging  as  I  did  six  years  ago  when  I  was  sick  at  Mentone. 
But  I  dare  say  the  devil  would  keep  telling  me  so,  if  I  had 
moved  mountains,  and  at  least  I  have  been  very  happy 
on  many  different  occasions,  and  that  is  always  something. 
I  can  read  nothing,  write  nothing ;  but  a  little  while  ago 
and  I  could  eat  nothing  either;  but  now  that  is  changed. 
This  is  a  long  letter  for  me;  rub  your  hands,  boy,  for 't  is 
an  honour.— Yours,  from  Charon's  strand,        R.  L.  S. 


V 

ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND 

SUMMERS 

(July,  i88o-October,  1882) 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND 
SUMMERS 

(July,  i88o-October,  1882) 

To  Sidney  Colvin  isso 

yET.    29 

1. forget  what  were  the  two  sets  of  verses  (apparently  satirical)  here 
mentioned.  The  volume  of  essays  must  be  Virginihus  Puerisque, 
published  the  following  spring;  but  it  is  dedicated  in  prose  to  W.  E. 
Henley. 

Ben  Wyvis  Hotel, 

Strathpeffer  [July,  1880]. 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  — One  or  two  words.  We  are  here: 
all  goes  exceeding  well  with  the  wife  and  with  the  par- 
ents. Near  here  is  a  valley ;  birch  woods,  heather,  and  a 
stream ;  I  have  lain  down  and  died ;  no  country,  no  place, 
was  ever  for  a  moment  so  delightful  to  my  soul.  And  I 
have  been  a  Scotchman  all  my  life,  and  denied  my  native 
land !  Away  with  your  gardens  of  roses,  indeed !  Give 
me  the  cool  breath  of  Rogie  waterfall,  henceforth  and  for 
ever,  world  without  end. 

I  enclose  two  poems  of,  I  think,  a  high  order.  One  is 
my  dedication  for  my  essays ;  it  was  occasioned  by  that 
delicious  article  in  the  Spectator.  The  other  requires  no 
explanation  ;  c'est  tout  bonnement  un  petit  chef  d'oeuvre 
de  graice,  de  delicatesse,  et  de  bon  sens  humanitaire. 
Celui  qui  ne  s*en  sent  pas  touchd  jusqu'aux  larmes— > 

145 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1880    celui-Ik  n'a  pas  vdcu.     I  wish  both  poems  back,  as  I  am 
^  *  ^^  copyless:  but  they  might  return  via  Henley. 

My  father  desires  me  still  to  withdraw  the  Emigrant, 
Whatever  may  be  the  pecuniary  loss,  he  is  willing  to  bear 
it;  and  the  gain  to  my  reputation  will  be  considerable. 

I  am  writing  against  time  and  the  post  runner.  But 
you  know  what  kind  messages  we  both  send  to  you. 
May  you  have  as  good  a  time  as  possible  so  far  from  Rogie ! 

R.  L.  S. 


TO  Charles  Baxter 

A  further  stay  at  Strathpeffer  led  to  disenchantment,  not  with  out- 
door nature,  but  with  human  nature  as  there  represented,  and  he 
relieves  his  feelings  as  follows: 

BEN  Wyvis  Hotel, 
Strathpeffer,  July,  1880, 
MY  DEAR  CHERLS,  — I  am  well  but  have  a  little  over- 
tired myself  which  is  disgusting.     This  is  a  heathenish 
place  near  delightful  places,  but  inhabited,  alas!  by  a 
wholly  bestial  crowd. 

ON  SOME  GHOSTLY  COMPANIONS  AT  A  SPA 

I  had  an  evil  day  when  I 
To  Strathpeffer  drew  anigh, 
For  there  I  found  no  human  soul, 
But  Ogres  occupied  the  whole. 
They  had  at  first  a  human  air 
In  coats  and  flannel  underwear. 
They  rose  and  walked  upon  their  feet 
And  filled  their  bellies  full  of  meat. 
Then  wiped  their  lips  when  they  had  done — 
146 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 

But  they  were  ogres  every  one.  1880 

Each  issuing  from  his  secret  bower  ^  *  ^^ 

I  marked  them  in  the  morning  hour. 

By  limp  and  totter,  lisp  and  droop 

I  singled  each  one  from  the  group. 

Detected  ogres,  from  my  sight 

Depart  to  your  congenial  night 

From  these  fair  vales :  from  this  fair  day 

Fleet,  spectres,  on  your  downward  way. 

Like  changing  figures  in  a  dream 

To  Muttonhole  and  Pittenweem ! 

Or,  as  by  harmony  divine 

The  devils  quartered  in  the  swine, 

If  any  baser  place  exist 

In  God's  great  registration  list — 

Some  den  with  wallow  and  a  trough — 

Find  it,  ye  ogres,  and  be  off ! 

Yours,  R.  L.  S. 


TO  ISOBEL  Strong 

Written  in  answer  to  an  inquiry  from  his  stepdaughter  at  San  Fran- 
cisco, on  the  second  day  after  his  arrival  at  Davos. 

HOTEL  BELVEDERE,  DAVOS,  November,  1880, 
No  my  che-ild — not  Kamschatka  this  trip,  only  the  top 
of  the  Alps,  or  thereby ;  up  in  a  little  valley  in  a  wilder- 
ness of  snowy  mountains ;  the  Rhine  not  far  from  us,  quite 
a  little  highland  river;  eternal  snow-peaks  on  every  hand. 
Yes ;  just  this  once  1  should  like  to  go  to  the  Vienna  gar- 
dens* with  the  family  and  hear  Tweed le-dee  and  drink 

*  In  San  Francisco. 
147 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1880  something  and  see  Germans — though  God  knows  we  have 
*  ^°  seen  Germans  enough  this  while  back.  Naturally  some 
in  the  Customs  House  on  the  Alsatian  frontier,  who  would 
have  made  one  die  from  laughing  in  a  theatre,  and  pro- 
voked a  smile  from  us  even  in  that  dismal  juncture.  To 
see  them,  big  blond,  sham-Englishmen  but  with  an  un- 
qualifiable  air  of  not  quite  fighting  the  sham  through,  div- 
ing into  old  women's  bags  and  going  into  paroxysms  of 
arithmetic  in  white  chalk,  three  or  four  of  them  (in  full 
uniform)  in  full  cry  upon  a  single  sum,  with  their  brows 
bent  and  a  kind  of  arithmetical  agony  upon  their  mugs. 
Madam,  the  diversion  of  cock-fighting  has  been  much 
commended,  but  it  was  not  a  circumstance  to  that  Cus- 
tom House.  They  only  opened  one  of  our  things :  a  bas- 
ket. But  when  they  met  from  within  the  intelligent  gaze 
of  IVoggs,  they  all  lay  down  and  died.  Woggs  is  a  fine 
dog.  .  .  . 

God  bless  you !  May  coins  fall  into  your  coffee  and  the 
finest  wines  and  wittles  lie  smilingly  about  your  path, 
with  a  kind  of  dissolving  view  of  fine  scenery  by  way  of 
background;  and  may  all  speak  well  of  you — and  me  too 
for  that  matter — and  generally  all  things  be  ordered  unto 
you  totally  regardless  of  expense  and  with  a  view  to 
nothing  in  the  world  but  enjoyment,  edification,  and  a 
portly  and  honoured  age.  —  Your  dear  papa, 

R.  L.  S. 


148 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

[HOTEL  Belvedere,  Davos,  December,  1880.] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,—  I  feel  better,  but  variable.  I  see  from 
the  doctor's  report  that  I  have  more  actual  disease  than  I 
supposed;  but  there  seems  little  doubt  of  my  recovery. 
I  like  the  place  and  shall  like  it  much  better  when  you 
come  at  Christmas.  That  is  written  on  my  heart:  S.  C. 
comes  at  Christmas :  so  if  you  play  me  false,  I  shall  have 
a  lie  upon  my  conscience.  I  like  Symonds  very  well, 
though  he  is  much,  I  think,  of  an  invalid  in  mind  and 
character.  But  his  mind  is  interesting,  with  many  beauti- 
ful corners,  and  his  consumptive  smile  very  winning  to 
see.  We  have  had  some  good  talks ;  one  went  over  Zola, 
Balzac,  Flaubert,  Whitman,  Christ,  Handel,  Milton,  Sir 
Thomas  Browne;  do  you  see  the  liaison? — in  another,  1, 
the  Bohnist,  the  un-Grecian,  was  the  means  of  his  con- 
version in  the  matter  of  the  Ajax.  It  is  truly  not  for 
nothing  that  I  have  read  my  Buckley.^ 

To-day,  the  south  wind  blows ;  and  I  am  seedy  in  con- 
sequence. 

Later. — I  want  to  know  when  you  are  coming,  so  as  to 
get  you  a  room.  You  will  toboggan  and  skate  your  head 
off,  and  I  will  talk  it  off,  and  briefly  if  you  don't  come 
pretty  soon,  I  will  cut  you  off  with  a  shilling. 

It  would  be  handsome  of  you  to  write.  The  doctor 
says  I  may  be  as  well  as  ever  ;  but  in  the  meantime  I  go 
slow  and  am  fit  for  little.  —  Ever  yours,  R.  L.  S. 

*  The  translator  of  Sophocles  in  Bohn's  Classics. 


149 


1880 

JET.  30 


i88i 
MX.  30 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

KINNAIRD   COTTAGE,  PITLOCHRY  [Jum,  1881]. 

MY  DEAR  S.  C, — Great  and  glorious  news.  Your 
friend,  the  bold  unf earing  chap,  Aims  at  a  professorial  cap. 
And  now  besieges,  do  and  dare,  The  Edinburgh  History 
chair.  Three  months  in  summer  only  it  Will  bind  him 
to  that  windy  bit;  The  other  nine  to  range  abroad,  Un- 
trammerd  in  the  eye  of  God.  Mark  in  particular  one 
thing :  He  means  to  work  that  cursed  thing.  And  to  the 
golden  youth  explain  Scotland  and  England,  France  and 
Spain. 

In  short,  sir,  I  mean  to  try  for  this  chair.  I  do  believe 
I  can  make  something  out  of  it.  It  will  be  a  pulpit  in  a 
sense ;  for  I  am  nothing  if  not  moral,  as  you  know.  My 
works  are  unfortunately  so  light  and  trifling  they  may  in- 
terfere. But  if  you  think,  as  I  think,  1  am  fit  to  fight  it, 
send  me  the  best  kind  of  testimonial  stating  all  you  can  in 
favour  of  me  and,  with  your  best  art,  turning  the  difficulty 
of  my  never  having  done  anything  in  history,  strictly 
speaking.  Second,  is  there  anybody  else,  think  you,  from 
whom  I  could  wring  one — I  mean,  you  could  wring  one 
for  me  ?  Any  party  in  London  or  Cambridge  who  thinks 
well  enough  of  my  little  books  to  back  me  up  with  a 
few  heartfelt  words  ?  Jenkin  approves  highly ;  but  says, 
pile  in  English  testimonials.  Now  I  only  know  Stephen, 
Symonds,  Lang,  Gosse  and  you,  and  Meredith,  to  be  sure. 
The  chair  is  in  the  gift  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  where 
I  believe  I  am  more  wondered  at  than  loved.  I  do  not 
know  the  foundation;  one  or  two  hundred,  I  suppose. 
But  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  me,  out  and  out  good. 

ISO 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 

Help  me  to  live,  help  me  to  work,  for  1  am  the  better  of    1881 
pressure,  and  help  me  to  say  what  I  want  about  God,  man 
and  life.  R.  L.  S. 

Heart-broken  trying  to  write  rightly  to  people. 
History  and  Constitutional  Law  is  the  full  style. 


To  Charles  J.  Guthrie 

The  next  two  letters  are  addressed  to  an  old  friend  and  fellow-mem- 
ber of  the  Speculative  Society,  who  had  passed  Advocate  six  years  be- 
fore, on  the  same  day  as  R.  L.  S.  himself,  and  is  now  Lord  Guthrie,  a 
Senator  of  the  Scottish  Courts  of  Justice,  and  has  Swanston  Cottage, 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  R.  L.  S.,  for  his  summer  home. 

KINNAIRD  COTTAGE, 

Pitlochry,  y««^  ^o,  1881. 
MY  DEAR  GUTHRIE, — 1  propose  to  myself  to  stand  for 
Mackay's  chair.  I  can  promise  that  I  will  not  spare  to 
work.  If  you  can  see  your  way  to  help  me,  I  shall  be 
glad ;  and  you  may  at  least  not  mind  making  my  candida- 
ture known. — Believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Charles  J.  Guthrie 

KINNAIRD  Cottage, 

Pitlochry,  yif//j;  2«^,  188 1. 

MY  DEAR  GUTHRIE,— Many  thanks  for  your  support, 

and  many  more  for  the  kindness  and  thoughtfulness  of 

your  letter.     I  shall  take  your  advice  in  both  directions  ; 

presuming  that  by  ''electors'*  you  mean  the  curators.     1 

151 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1881  must  see  to  this  soon ;  and  I  feel  it  would  also  do  no  harm 
^  '  ^°  to  look  in  at  the  P.  H.^  As  soon  then  as  I  get  through 
with  a  piece  of  work  that  both  sits  upon  me  like  a  stone 
and  attracts  me  like  a  piece  of  travel,  I  shall  come  to  town 
and  go  a-visiting.  Testimonial-hunting  is  a  queer  form  of 
sport— but  has  its  pleasures. 

If  I  got  that  chair,  the  Spec'  would  have  a  warm  de- 
fender near  at  hand!  The  sight  of  your  fist  made  me 
Speculative  on  the  past. — Yours  most  sincerely, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  W.  E.  HENLEY 

Stevenson's  uncle,  Dr.  George  Balfour,  had  recommended  him  to 
wear  a  specially  contrived  and  hideous  respirator  for  the  inhalation  of 
pine-oil. 

Braemar,  1 88 1. 
Dear  Henley,  with  a  pig's  snout  on 
I  am  starting  for  London, 
Where  I  likely  shall  arrive. 
On  Saturday,  if  still  alive : 
Perhaps  your  pirate  doctor  might 
See  me  on  Sunday  ?     If  all  's  right, 
I  should  then  lunch  with  you  and  with  she 
Who  's  dearer  to  you  than  you  are  to  me. 
1  shall  remain  but  little  time 
In  London,  as  a  wretched  clime, 
But  not  so  wretched  (for  none  are) 
As  that  of  beastly  old  Braemar. 
My  doctor  sends  me  skipping.     I 
Have  many  facts  to  pieet  your  eye. 

» Parliament  House.  '  Speculative  Society. 

152 


MT.  30 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 

My  pig's  snout  *s  now  upon  my  face ;  1881 

And  I  inhale  with  fishy  grace, 

My  gills  outflapping  right  and  left, 

01.  pin.  sylvest.     I  am  bereft 

Of  a  great  deal  of  charm  by  this — 

Not  quite  the  bull's  eye  for  a  kiss — 

But  like  the  gnome  of  olden  time 

Or  bogey  in  a  pantomime. 

For  ladies'  love  I  once  was  fit, 

But  now  am  rather  out  of  it. 

Where'er  I  go,  revolted  curs 

Snap  round  my  military  spurs; 

The  children  all  retire  in  fits 

And  scream  their  bellowses  to  bits. 

Little  I  care :  the  worst  's  been  done : 

Now  let  the  cold  impoverished  sun 

Drop  frozen  from  his  orbit;  let 

Fury  and  fire,  cold,  wind  and  wet, 

And  cataclysmal  mad  reverses 

Rage  through  the  federate  universes ; 

Let  Lawson  triumph,  cakes  and  ale, 

Whiskey  and  hock  and  claret  fail ;  — 

Tobacco,  love,  and  letters  perish. 

With  all  that  any  man  could  cherish : 

You  it  may  touch,  not  me.     I  dwell 

Too  deep  already — deep  in  hell; 

And  nothing  can  befall,  O  damn  1 

To  make  me  uglier  than  I  am. 

R.  L.  S. 

This-yer  refers  to  an  ori-nasal  respirator  for  the  inhala- 
tion of  pine- wood  oil,  oleum  pint  sylvestris. 

153 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


1881 
jEr.  30 


TO  Edmund  Gosse 

Some  of  the  habitual  readers  of  Young  Folks  had  written  objecting 
to  the  early  instalments  of  Treasure  Island,  and  the  editor  had  come 
forward  in  their  defence. 

Davos  Printing  Office, 
Managed  by  Samuel  Lloyd  Osbourne  &  Co., 
The  Chalet  [November  9,  1881]. 

DEAR  WEG,  — If  you  are  taking  Young  Folks,  for  God's 
Sake  Twig  the  editorial  style ;  it  is  incredible ;  we  are  all 
left  [panting  in  the  rear ;  twig,  O  twig  it.  His  name  is 
Clinton ;  1  should  say  the  most  melodious  prosewriter  now 
alive;  it 's  like  buttermilk  and  blacking;  it  sings  and 
hums  away  in  that  last  sheet,  like  a  great  old  kettle  full 
of  bilge  water.  You  know :  none  of  us  could  do  it,  boy. 
See  No.  571,  last  page:  an  article  called  **Sir  Claude  the 
Conqueror,"  and  read  it  aloud  in  your  best  rhythmic 
tones ;  mon  cher,  c'est  dpatant. 

Observe  in  the  same  number,  how  Will  J.  Shannon 
girds  at  your  poor  friend ;  and  how  the  rhythmic  Clinton 
steps  chivalrously  forth  in  his  defence.  First  the  Rev. 
Purcell;  then  Will  J.  Shannon:  thick  fall  the  barbed 
arrows.* 

I  wish  I  could  play  a  game  of  chess  with  you. 

If  I  survive,  I  shall  have  Clinton  to  dinner :  it  is  plain  I 
must  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines;  I  shall  not  long 

*  The  Editor's  defence  was  in  the  following  terms:  —  "That  which 
you  condemn  is  really  the  best  story  now  appearing  in  the  paper,  and 
the  impress  of  an  able  writer  is  stamped  on  every  paragraph  of  The 
Treasure  Island.  You  will  probably  share  this  opinion  when  you  have 
read  a  little  more  of  it." 

154 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 

keep  a  footing  in  the  world  of  penny  writers,  or  call  them  1881 
obolists.  It  is  a  world  full  of  surprises,  a  romantic  world.  ^^'  ^^ 
Weg,  I  was  known  there;  even  I.  The  obolists,  then, 
sometimes  peruse  our  works.  It  is  only  fair;  since  I  so 
much  batten  upon  theirs.  Talking  of  which,  in  Heaven's 
name,  get  The  Bondage  of  Brandon  (3  vols.)  by  Bracebridge 
Hemming.  It 's  the  devil  and  all  for  drollery.  There  is  a 
Superior  (sic)  of  the  Jesuits,  straight  out  of  Skelt. 

And  now  look  here,  I  had  three  points:  Clinton — dis- 
posed of—  (2nd)  Benj.  Franklin— do  you  want  him  ?  (3rd) 
A  radiant  notion  begot  this  morning  over  an  atlas :  why 
not,  you  who  know  the  lingo,  give  us  a  good  legendary 
and  historical  book  on  Iceland  ?  It  would,  or  should,  be 
as  romantic  as  a  book  of  Scott's ;  as  strange  and  stirring 
as  a  dream.  Think  on  't.  My  wife  screamed  with  joy 
at  the  idea ;  and  the  little  Lloyd  clapped  his  hands ;  so  I 
offer  you  three  readers  on  the  spot. 

Fanny  and  I  have  both  been  in  bed,  tended  by  the  hired 
sick  nurse ;  Lloyd  has  a  broken  fmger  (so  he  did  not  clap 
his  hands  literally);  Wogg  has  had  an  abscess  in  his  ear; 
our  servant  is  a  devil. —  I  am  yours  ever,  with  both  of  our 
best  regards  to  Mrs.  Gosse, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
The  Rejected  Obolist. 


TO  W.   E.   HENLEY 

This  letter  speaks  of  contributions  to  the  Magazine  of  Art  (in  these 
years  edited  by  Mr,  Henley)  from  J.  A.  Symonds  and  from  R.  L.  S. 
himself,  "  Bunyan  "  meaning  the  essay  on  the  cuts  in  Bagster's  edition 
of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  A  toy  press  had  just  been  set  up  in  the 
chalet  for  the  lad  Lloyd. 


letters  of  r.  l.  stevenson 

1881  Davos  Printing  Office, 

^^'  ^^        Managed  by  Samuel  Lloyd  Osbourne  &  Co., 

The  Chalet  [November,  188 1]. 

DEAR  HENLEY,  —  I  have  done  better  for  you  than  you 
deserved  to  hope ;  the  Venice  Medley  is  withdrawn ;  and 
I  have  a  Monte  Oiiveto  (short)  for  you,  with  photographs 
and  sketches.  I  think  you  owe  luck  a  candle ;  for  this  no 
skill  could  have  accomplished  without  the  aid  of  accident. 

How  about  carving  and  gilding }  1  have  nearly  killed 
myself  over  Bunyan ;  and  am  too  tired  to  finish  him  to- 
day, as  I  might  otherwise  have  done.  For  his  back  is 
broken.  For  some  reason,  it  proved  one  of  the  hardest 
things  I  ever  tried  to  write;  perhaps — but  no — I  have  no 
theory  to  offer — it  went  against  the  spirit.  But  as  I  say 
I  girt  my  loins  up  and  nearly  died  of  it. 

In  five  weeks,  six  at  the  latest,  I  should  have  a  complete 
proof  of  Treasure  Island.  It  will  be  from  75  to  80,000 
words ;  and  with  anything  like  half -good  pictures,  it  should 
sell.  I  suppose  I  may  at  least  hope  for  eight  pic's  ?  I  as- 
pire after  ten  or  twelve.     You  had  better. 

— Two  days  later. 

Bunyan  skips  to-day,  pretty  bad,  always  with  an  ofifi- 
cial  letter.  Yours  came  last  night.  I  had  already  spotted 
your  Dickens ;  very  pleasant  and  true. 

My  wife  is  far  from  well ;  quite  confined  to  bed  now ; 
drain  poisoning.  I  keep  getting  better  slowly;  appetite 
dicky;  but  some  days  I  feel  and  eat  well.  The  weather 
has  been  hot  and  heartless  and  un-Davosy. 

I  shall  give  Symonds  his  note  in  about  an  hour  from 
now. 

Have  done  so;  he  will  write  Vesalius  and  of  Botticelli's 
Dante  for  you. 

XS6 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 


Morris's  Sigurd  is  a  grrrrreat  poem;  that  is  so.     I  have     1881 
cried  aloud  at  this  re-reading;  he  had  fine  stuff  to  go  on,  ^  '  ^^ 
but  he  has  touched  it,  in  places,  with  the  hand  of  a  mas- 
ter.    Yes.     Regin  and  Fafnir  are  incredibly  fine. 

Love  to  all. — Yours  ever,  R.  L.  S. 


TO  Edmund  Gosse 

Mr.  Gosse  and  R.  L.  S.  had  proposed  to  Mr.  R.  W.  Gilder,  of  the 
Century  Magazine,  that  they  should  collaborate  for  him  on  a  series  of 
murder  papers,  beginning  with  the  Elstree  murder;  and  he  had  accepted 
the  proposal  on  terms  which  they  thought  liberal. 

HOTEL  BUOL,  Davos,  Dec.  26th,  1881, 
MY  DEAR  GOSSE,  —  I  have  just  brought  my  wife  back, 
through  such  cold,  in  an  open  sleigh  too,  as  I  had  never 
fancied  to  exist.  I  won't  use  the  word  torture,  but  go  to 
your  dentist's  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  you  will  not 
suffer  more  pain  than  we  suffered. 

This  is  merely  in  acknowledgment  of  your  editorial :  to 
say  that  I  shall  give  my  mind  at  once  to  the  Murder.  But 
I  bethink  me  you  can  say  so  much  and  convey  my  sense 
of  the  liberality  of  our  Cousins,  without  exhibiting  this 
scrawl.  So  I  may  go  on  to  tell  you  that  I  have  at  last 
found  a  publisher  as  eager  to  publish,  as  I  am  to  write  a 
Hazlitt.  Bentley  is  the  Boy;  and  very  liberal,  at  least, 
as  per  last  advices;  certainly  very  friendly  and  eager, 
which  makes  work  light,  like  whistling.  I  wish  I  was 
with  the  rest  of — well,  of  us — in  the  red  books.  But  I 
am  glad  to  get  a  whack  at  Hazlitt,  howsoe'er. 

How  goes  your  Gray  ?  I  would  not  change  with  you, 
brother !  Gray  would  never  be  suited  to  my  tempera- 
ment, while  Hazlitt  fits  me  like  a  glove. 

>S7 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1882        I  hope  in  your  studies  in  Young  Folks  you  did  not  miss 
^  *  ^^  the  delicious  reticences,  the  artistic  concealments,  and  gen- 
eral fine-shade  graduation,  through  which  the  fact  of  the 
Xmas  Nr.  being  3d.  was  instilled— too  strong — inspired 
into  the  mind  of  the  readers.    It  was  superb. 

I  may  add  as  a  postscript :  I  wish  to  God  I  or  anybody 
knew  what  was  the  matter  with  my  wife.— Yours  ever, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  Mrs.  Gosse 

Mrs.  Gosse  had  sent  R.  ^.  S.  a  miniature  Bible  illustrated  with  rude 
cuts,  picked  up  at  an  outdoor  stall.  "  Lloyd's  new  work"  is  Black 
Canyon. 

[Chalet  am  Stein,  Davos,  March  16,  1882.I 
DEAR  MRS.  GOSSE,— Thank  you  heartily  for  the  Bible, 
which  is  exquisite.  I  thoroughly  appreciate  the  whole; 
but  have  you  done  justice  to  the  third  lion  in  Daniel  (like 
the  third  murderer  in  Macbeth) — a  singular  animal — study 
him  well.     The  soldier  in  the  fiery  furnace  beats  me. 

1  enclose  a  programme  of  Lloyd's  new  work.  The  work  I 
shall  send  to-morrow,  for  the  publisher  is  out  and  I  dare  not 
touch  his  ** plant":  ilm'encuirait.  The  work  in  question 
I  think  a  huge  lark,  but  still  droller  is  the  author's  attitude. 
Not  one  incident  holds  with  another  from  beginning  to 
end ;  and  whenever  I  discover  a  new  inconsistency,  Sam 
is  the  first  to  laugh— with  a  kind  of  humorous  pride  at 
the  thing  being  so  silly. 

I  saw  the  note,  and  I  was  so  sorry  my  article  had  not 
come  in  time  for  the  old  lady.  We  should  all  hurry  up 
and  praise  the  living.  I  must  praise  Tupper.  A  propos, 
did  you  ever  read  him  ? — or  know  any  one  who  had } 

158 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 

That  is  very  droll ;  but  the  truth  is  we  all  live  in  a  clique,     »882 
buy  each  other's  books  and  like  each  other's  books;  and  ^^'  ^^ 
the  great,  gaunt,  grey,  gaping  public  snaps  its  big  fingers 
and  reads  Talmage  and  Tupper — and  Black  Canyon. 

My  wife  is  better ;  I,  for  the  moment,  am  but  so-so  my- 
self; but  the  printer  is  in  very — how  shall  we  say? — 
large  type  at  this  present,  and  the  sound  of  the  press 
never  ceases.    Remember  me  to  Weg. — Yours  very  truly, 
(signed)     ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


NOTICE 

To-day  is  published  by  S.  L.  Osbourne  &  Co. 

ILLUSTRATED 

BLACK  CANYON, 

or 

Wild  Adventures  in  the  Far  West. 

An 

Instructive  and  amusing  TALE  written  by 

Samuel  Lloyd  Osbourne 

Price  6d, 

Opinions  of  the  Press 

Although  Black  Canyon  is  rather  shorter  than  ordinary 
for  that  kind  of  story,  it  is  an  excellent  work.  We  cor- 
dially recommend  it  to  our  readers. —  Weekly  Messenger, 

S.  L.  Osbourne's  new  work  {Black  Canyon)  is  splen- 
didly illustrated.  In  the  story,  the  characters  are  bold 
and  striking.     It  reflects  the  highest  honour  on  its  writer. 

—  Morning  Call, 

A  very  remarkable  work.  Every  page  produces  an  ef- 
fect. The  end  is  as  singular  as  the  beginning.  I  never 
saw  such  a  work  before. — R,  L.  Stevenson, 

159 


i882 

^T.   31 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  Trevor  Haddon 

The  few  remaining  letters  of  this  period  are  dated  from  Edinburgh 
and  from  Stobo  Manse,  near  Peebles.  This,  in  the  matter  of  weather 
and  health,  was  the  most  disappointing  of  all  Stevenson's  attempts  at 
summer  residence  in  Scotland.  Before  going  to  Stobo  he  made  a  short 
excursion  with  his  father  to  Lochearnhead  ;  and  later  spent  some  three 
weeks  with  me  at  Kingussie,  but  from  neither  place  wrote  any  letters 
worth  preserving.  The  following  was  addressed  to  a  young  art-student 
who  had  read  the  works  of  Walt  Whitman  after  reading  Stevenson's 
essay  on  him,  and  being  staggered  by  some  things  he  found  there,  had 
written  asking  for  further  comment  and  counsel. 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh  [June,  1882]. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  If  1  have  in  any  way  disquieted  you,  I  be- 
lieve you  are  justified  in  bidding  me  stand  and  deliver  a 
remedy  if  there  be  one :  which  is  the  point. 

ist  I  am  of  your  way  of  thinking:  that  a  good  deal  of 
Whitman  is  as  well  taken  once  but  2nd  I  quite  believe  that 
it  is  better  to  have  everything  brought  before  one  in  books. 
In  that  way  the  problems  reach  us  when  we  are  cool,  and 
not  warped  by  the  sophistries  of  an  instant  passion.  Life 
itself  presents  its  problems  with  a  terrible  directness  and 
at  the  very  hour  when  we  are  least  able  to  judge  calmly. 
Hence  this  Pisgah  sight  of  all  things,  off  the  top  of  a  book, 
is  only  a  rational  preparation  for  the  ugly  grips  that  must 
follow. 

But  3rd,  no  man  can  settle  another's  life  for  him.  It  is 
the  test  of  the  nature  and  courage  of  each  that  he  shall 
decide  it  for  himself.  Each  in  turn  must  meet  and  beard 
the  Sphynx.  Some  things  however  I  may  say — and  you 
will  treat  them  as  things  read  in  a  book  for  you  to  accept 
or  refuse  as  you  shall  see  most  fit. 

Go  not  out  of  your  way  to  make  difficulties.  Hang 
160 


ALPINE  WINTERS  AND  HIGHLAND  SUMMERS 

back  from  life  while  you  are  young.  Shoulder  no  respon-  1882 
sibilities.  You  do  not  yet  know  how  far  you  can  trust  "*  ^' 
yourself — it  will  not  be  very  far,  or  you  are  more  fortu- 
nate than  1  am.  If  you  can  keep  your  sexual  desires  in 
order,  be  glad,  be  very  glad.  Some  day,  when  you  meet 
your  fate,  you  will  be  free,  and  the  better  man.  Don't 
make  a  hoy  and  girl  friendship  that  which  it  is  not.  Look 
at  Burns:  that  is  where  amourettes  conduct  an  average 
good  man ;  and  a  tepid  marriage  is  only  a  more  selfish 
amourette — in  the  long  run.  Whatever  you  do,  see  that 
you  don't  sacrifice  a  woman ;  that 's  where  all  imperfect 
loves  conduct  us.  At  the  same  time,  if  you  can  make  it 
convenient  to  be  chaste,  for  God's  sake,  avoid  the  prim- 
ness of  your  virtue;  hardness  to  a  poor  harlot  is  a  sin 
lower  than  the  ugliest  unchastity. 

Never  be  in  a  hurry  anyhow. 

There  is  my  sermon. 

Certainly,  you  cannot  too  earnestly  go  in  for  the  Greek ; 
and  about  any  art,  think  last  of  what  pays,  first  of  what 
pleases.  It  is  in  that  spirit  only  that  an  art  can  be  made. 
Progress  in  art  is  made  by  learning  to  enjoy  it.  That  which 
seems  a  little  dull  at  first,  is  found  to  contain  the  elements 
of  pleasure  more  largely  though  more  quietly  commingled. 

1  return  to  my  sermon  for  one  more  word :  Natural  de- 
sire gives  you  no  right  to  any  particular  woman:  that 
comes  with  love  only,  and  don't  be  too  ready  to  believe  in 
love :  there  are  many  shams :  the  true  love  will  not  allow 
you  to  reason  about  it. 

It  is  your  fault  if  I  appear  so  pulpiteering. 

Wishing  you  well  in  life  and  art,  and  that  you  may 
long  be  young.  —  Believe  me,  yours  truly, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

r6i 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1882 
'^^'  ^^  TO  TREVOR  HADDON 

17  Heriot  Row,  Edinburgh  [June,  1882]. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  — I  see  nothing  **cheekie"  in  anything 
you  have  done.  Your  letters  have  naturally  given  me 
much  pleasure,  for  it  seems  to  me  you  are  a  pretty  good 
young  fellow,  as  young  fellows  go;  and  if  I  add  that  you 
remind  me  of  myself,  you  need  not  accuse  me  of  retrospec- 
tive vanity. 

You  now  know  an  address  which  will  always  find  me ; 
you  might  let  me  have  your  address  in  London ;  I  do  not 
promise  anything — for  I  am  always  overworked  in  London 
— but  I  shall,  if  I  can  arrange  it,  try  to  see  you. 

I  am  afraid  I  am  not  so  rigid  on  chastity :  you  are  prob- 
ably right  in  your  view ;  but  this  seems  to  me  a  dilemma 
with  two  horns,  the  real  curse  of  a  man's  life  in  our  state 
of  society — and  a  woman's  too,  although,  for  many  rea- 
sons, it  appears  somewhat  differently  with  the  enslaved  sex. 
By  your  **fate'*  I  believe  I  meant  your  marriage,  or  that 
love  at  least  which  may  befall  any  one  of  us  at  the  short- 
est notice  and  overthrow  the  most  settled  habits  and  opin- 
ions. I  call  that  your  fate,  because  then,  if  not  before, 
you  can  no  longer  hang  back,  but  must  stride  out  into 
life  and  act. — Believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

ROBERT  Louis  Stevenson. 


162 


VI 

MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 
(October,  1882-AuGUST,  1884) 


VI 

MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

(October,  i882-August,  1884) 

To  Trevor  Haddon  1882 

iCT.  32 

Campagne  DEFLI, 
St.  Marcel,  Dec.  2gth,  1882. 

DEAR  SIR, — I  am  glad  you  sent  me  your  note,  I  had 
indeed  lost  your  address,  and  was  half  thinking  to  try  the 
Ringstown  one;  but  far  from  being  busy,  1  have  been 
steadily  ill.  I  was  but  three  or  four  days  in  London,  wait- 
ing till  one  of  my  friends  was  able  to  accompany  me,  and 
had  neither  time  nor  health  to  see  anybody  but  some  pub- 
lisher people.  Since  then  1  have  been  worse  and  better, 
better  and  worse,  but  never  able  to  do  any  work  and  for 
a  large  part  of  the  time  forbidden  to  write  and  even  to 
play  Patience,  that  last  of  civilised  amusements.  In  brief, 
I  have  been  **the  sheer  hulk'*  to  a  degree  almost  outside 
of  my  experience,  and  I  desire  all  my  friends  to  forgive  me 
my  sins  of  omission  this  while  back.  1  only  wish  you 
were  the  only  one  to  whom  1  owe  a  letter,  or  many  letters. 

But  you  see,  at  least,  you  had  done  nothing  to  offend 
me ;  and  I  dare  say  you  will  let  me  have  a  note  from  time 
to  time,  until  we  shall  have  another  chance  to  meet. — 
Yours  sincerely,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

An  excellent  new  year  to  you,  and  many  of  them. 
If  you  chance  to  see  a  paragraph  in  the  papers  describ- 
165 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


iET.  32 


1883  ing  my  illness,  and  the  **  delicacies  suitable  to  my  invalid 
condition"  cooked  in  copper,  and  the  other  ridiculous  and 
revolting  yarns,  pray  regard  it  as  a  spectral  illusion,  and 
pass  by. 


[MRS.  R.  L.  Stevenson 

To  JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 

I  intercalate  here  Mrs.  Stevenson's  extremely  vivid  and  characteristic 
account  of  the  v^reird  misadventures  that  befell  the  pair  during  their 
retreat  from  St.  Marcel  in  search  of  a  healthier  home. 

[Campagne  Defli, 
St.  WiRCEL,  January,  i88sA 

MY  DEAR  MR.  SYMONDS,  — What  must  you  think  of 
us  ?  I  hardly  dare  write  to  you.  What  do  you  do  when 
people  to  whom  you  have  been  the  dearest  of  friends  re- 
quite you  by  acting  like  fiends  ?  1  do  hope  you  heap  coals 
of  fire  on  their  heads  in  the  good  old  Christian  sense. 

Louis  has  been  very  ill  again.  I  hasten  to  say  that  he 
is  now  better.  But  I  thought  at  one  time  he  would  never 
be  better  again.  He  had  continual  hemorrhages  and  be- 
came so  weak  that  he  was  twice  insensible  on  one  day, 
and  was  for  a  long  time. like  one  dead.  At  the  worst 
fever  broke  out  in  this  village,  typhus,  I  think,  and  all 
the  death-bells  rang,  and  we  could  hear  the  chanting  whilst 
the  wretched  villagers  carried  about  their  dead  lying  bare 
to  the  sun  on  their  coffin-lids,  so  spreading  the  contagion 
through  the  streets.  The  evening  of  the  day  when  Louis 
was  so  long  insensible  the  weather  changed,  becoming 
very  clear  and  fine  and  greatly  refreshing  and  reviving 
him.  Then  I  said  if  it  held  good  he  should  start  in  the 
morning  for  Nice  and  try  what  a  change  might  do.    Just 

166 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

at  that  time  there  was  not  money  enough  for  the  two  of  us,  1883 
so  he  had  to  start  alone,  though  I  expected  soon  to  be  able  ^^'  ^^ 
to  follow  him.  During  the  night  a  peasant-man  died  in 
a  house  in  our  garden,  and  in  the  morning  the  corpse, 
hideously  swollen  in  the  stomach,  was  lying  on  its  coffin- 
lid  at  our  gates.  Fortunately  it  was  taken  away  just 
before  Louis  went,  and  he  didn't  see  it  nor  hear  anything 
about  it  until  afterwards.  1  had  been  back  and  forth  all 
the  morning  from  the  door  to  the  gates,  and  from  the  gates 
to  the  door,  in  an  agony  lest  Louis  should  have  to  pass  it 
on  his  way  out. 

I  was  to  have  a  despatch  from  Toulon  where  Louis  was 
to  pass  the  night,  two  hours  from  St.  Marcel,  and  another 
from  Nice,  some  few  hours  further,  the  next  day.  I  waited 
one,  two,  three,  four  days,  and  no  word  came.  Neither 
telegram  nor  letter.  The  evening  of  the  fourth  day  I  went 
to  Marseilles  and  telegraphed  to  the  Toulon  and  Nice  sta- 
tions and  to  the  bureau  of  police.  I  had  been  pouring  out 
letters  to  every  place  I  could  think  of.  The  people  at 
Marseilles  were  very  kind  and  advised  me  to  take  no  further 
steps  to  find  my  husband.  He  was  certainly  dead,  they 
said.  It  was  plain  that  he  stopped  at  some  little  station 
on  the  road,  speechless  and  dying,  and  it  was  now  too  late 
to  dp  anything ;  I  had  much  better  return  at  once  to  my 
friends.  *'  Eet  ofen  'appens  so,''  said  the  Secretary,  and 
*'  Oh  yes,  all  right,  very  well,"  added  a  Swiss  in  a  sym- 
pathetic voice.  I  waited  all  night  at  Marseilles  and  got  no 
answer,  all  the  next  day  and  got  no  answer ;  then  I  went 
back  to  St.  Marcel  and  there  was  nothing  there.  At  eight 
1  started  on  the  train  with  Lloyd  who  had  come  for  his 
holidays,  but  it  only  took  us  to  Toulon  where  again  1  tele- 
graphed.    At  last  I  got  an  answer  the  next  day  at  noon. 

167 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1883  I  waited  at  Toulon  for  the  train  I  had  reason  to  believe 
^^'  ^^  Louis  travelled  by,  intending  to  stop  at  every  station  and 
inquire  for  him  until  I  got  to  Nice.  Imagine  what  those 
days  were  to  me.  I  never  received  any  of  the  letters  Louis 
had  written  to  me,  and  he  was  reading  the  first  he  had 
received  from  me  when  I  knocked  at  his  door.  A  week 
afterwards  I  had  an  answer  from  the  police.  Louis  was 
much  better :  the  change  and  the  doctor,  who  seems  very 
clever,  have  done  wonderful  things  for  him.  It  was  dur- 
ing this  first  day  of  waiting  that  I  received  your  letter. 
There  was  a  vague  comfort  in  it  like  a  hand  oifered  in  the 
darkness,  but  I  did  not  read  it  until  long  after. 

We  have  had  many  other  wild  misadventures,  Louis  has 
twice  (started)  actually  from  Nice  under  a  misapprehen- 
sion. At  this  moment  I  believe  him  to  be  at  Marseilles, 
stopping  at  the  Hotel  du  Petit  Louvre ;  I  am  supposed  to 
be  packing  here  at  St.  Marcel,  afterwards  we  are  to  go 
somewhere,  perhaps  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  My  nerves 
are  so  shattered  by  the  terrible  suspense  I  endured  that 
memorable  week  that  I  have  not  been  fit  to  do  much. 
When  I  was  returning  from  Nice  a  dreadful  old  man  with 
a  fat  wife  and  a  weak  granddaughter  sat  opposite  me  and 
plied  me  with  the  most  extraordinary  questions.  He  began 
by  asking  if  Lloyd  was  any  connection  of  mine,  and  ended 
I  believe  by  asking  my  mother's  maiden  name.  Another 
of  the  questions  he  put  to  me  was  where  Louis  wished  to  be 
buried,  and  whether  I  could  afford  to  have  him  embalmed 
when  he  died.  When  the  train  stopped  the  only  other 
passenger,  a  quiet  man  in  a  corner  who  looked  several 
times  as  if  he  wished  to  interfere  and  stop  the  old  man  but 
was  too  shy,  came  to  me  and  said  that  he  knew  Sidney 
Colvin  and  he  knew  you,  and  that  you  were  both  friends 

168 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

of  Louis;  and  that  his  name  was  Basil  Hammond,*  and  1883 
he  wished  to  stay  on  a  day  in  Marseilles  and  help  me  ^^'  ^^ 
work  off  my  affairs.  I  accepted  his  offer  with  heartfelt 
thanks.  I  was  extremely  ill  next  day,  but  we  two  went 
about  and  arranged  about  giving  up  this  house  and  what 
compensation,  and  did  some  things  that  I  could  not  have 
managed  alone.  My  French  is  useful  only  in  domestic 
economy,  and  even  that,  I  fear,  is  very  curious  and  much 
of  it  patois.  Wasn't  that  a  good  fellow,  and  a  kind  fellow  ? 
—  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am,  words  are  such  fee- 
ble things — at  least  for  that  purpose.  For  anger,  justifi- 
able wrath,  they  are  all  too  forcible.  It  was  very  bad  of 
me  not  to  write  to  you,  we  talked  of  you  so  often  and 
thought  of  you  so  much,  and  I  always  said  —  **now  I  will 
write'* — and  then  somehow  I  could  not.  .  .  . 

Fanny  V.  de  G.  Stevenson.] 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Stevenson  here  narrates  in  his  own  fashion  by  what  generalship  he 
at  last  got  rid  of  the  Campagne  Defli  without  having  to  pay  compensa- 
tion as  his  wife  expected. 

HOTEL  Du  Petit  Louvre, 

Marseille,  75  Feb,  1883. 
DEAR  SIR, — This  is  to  intimate  to  you  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  were  yesterday  safely  de- 
livered 

of  a 
Campagne. 

»  For  many  years  fellow  of  and  historical  lecturer  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge. 

169 


yET.    32 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1883        The  parents  are  both  doing  much  better  than  could  be 
expected ;  particularly  the  dear  papa. 

There,  Colvin,  I  did  it  this  time.  Huge  success.  The 
proprietaires  were  scattered  like  chaff.  If  it  had  not  been 
the  agent,  may  Israel  now  say,  if  it  had  not  been  the  agent 
who  was  on  our  side !  But  I  made  the  agent  march  !  I 
threatened  law;  1  was  Immense — what  do  I  say?  — Im- 
measurable. The  agent,  however,  behaved  well  and  is  a 
fairly  honest  little  one-eared,  white-eyed  tom-cat  of  an 
opera-going  gold-hunter.  The  propridtaire  non  est  inventa; 
we  countermarched  her,  got  in  valuators ;  and  in  place  of 
a  hundred  francs  in  her  pocket,  she  got  nothing,  and  I 
paid  one  silver  biscuit !  It  might  go  further  but  I  am  con- 
vinced will  not,  and  anyway,  I  fear  not  the  consequences. 

The  weather  is  incredible ;  my  heart  sings ;  my  health 
satisfies  even  my  wife.  1  did  jolly  well  right  to  come 
after  all  and  she  now  admits  it.  For  she  broke  down  as 
\  knew  she  would,  and  I  from  here,  without  passing  a 
night  at  the  Defli,  though  with  a  cruel  effusion  of  coach- 
hires,  took  up  the  wondrous  tale  and  steered  the  ship 
through.  I  now  sit  crowned  with  laurel  and  literally  ex- 
ulting in  kudos.  The  affair  has  been  better  managed  than 
our  last  two  winterings,  —  1  am  yours, 

Brabazon  Drum. 


TO  W.  E.  HENLEY 

[Chalet  la  Solitude,  Hyeres,  April,  1883,] 

My  head  is  singing  with  Otto;  for  the  first  two  weeks 

1  wrote  and  revised  and  only  finished  IV  chapters :  last 

week,  I  have  just  drafted  straight  ahead,  and  I  have  just 

finished  Chapter  XI.    It  will  want  a  heap  of  oversight  and 

170 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

much  will  not  stand,  but  the  pace  is  good ;  about  28  Com-  1883 
hill  pp.  drafted  in  seven  days,  and  almost  all  of  it  dialogue  *  -^ 
—  indeed  I  may  say  all,  for  1  have  dismissed  the  rest 
very  summarily  in  the  draft:  one  can  always  tickle  at 
that.  At  the  same  rate,  the  draft  should  be  finished  in 
ten  days  more ;  and  then  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  be- 
ginning again  at  the  beginning.  Ah  damned  job !  I  have 
no  idea  whether  or  not  Otto  will  be  good.  It  is  all  pitched 
pretty  high  and  stilted;  almost  like  the  Arabs,  at  that; 
but  of  course  there  is  love-making  in  Otto,  and  indeed  a 
good  deal  of  it.  1  sometimes  feel  very  weary;  but  the 
thing  travels — and  I  like  it  when  1  am  at  it. 

Remember  me  kindly  to  all.— Your  ex-contributor, 

R.  L.  S. 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

[Chalet  la  Solitude,  Hy^res,  May,  188^,] 
Colvin,  —  The  attempt  to  correspond  with  you  is  vain. 
Well,  well,  then  so  be  it.  I  will  from  time  to  time  write  you 
an  insulting  letter,  brief  but  monstrous  harsh.  I  regard  you 
in  the  light  of  a  genteel  impostor.  Your  name  figures  in 
the  papers  but  never  to  a  piece  of  letter-paper :  well,  well. 
News.  I  am  well:  Fanny  been  ill  but  better:  Otto 
about  three-quarters  done :  Silverado  proofs  a  terrible  job 
—  it  is  a  most  unequal  work — new  wine  in  old  bottles — 
•large  rats,  small  bottles:^  as  usual,  penniless — O  but  pen- 

» The  allusion  is  to  a  specimen  1  had  been  used  to  hear  quoted  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington's  table-talk  in  his  latter  years.  He  had  said  that 
musk-rats  were  sometimes  kept  alive  in  bottles  in  India.  Curate,  or 
other  meek  dependent :  "  I  presume,  your  Grace,  they  are  small  rats  and 
large  bottles."  His  Grace  :  "No,  large  rats,  small  bottles  ;  large  rats, 
small  bottles  ;  large  rats,  small  bottles." 

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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1883     niless:  still,  with  four  articles  in  hand  (say  £'^^)  and  the 
^^'  ^^  ;^ioo  for  Silverado  imminent,  not  hopeless. 

Why  am  I  so  penniless,  ever,  ever  penniless,  ever,  ever 
penny-penny-penniless  and  dry  ? 

The  birds  upon  the  thorn. 
The  poppies  in  the  corn. 
They  surely  are  more  fortunate  or  prndenter  than  I ! 

In  Arabia,  everybody  is  called  the  Father  of  something 
or  other  for  convenience  or  insult's  sake.  Thus  you  are 
**the  Father  of  Prints,'*  or  of  **Bummkopferies,''  or 
**  Father  of  Unanswered  Correspondence."  They  would 
instantly  dub  Henley  *'the  Father  of  Wooden  Legs  " ;  me 
they  would  denominate  the  **  Father  of  Bones,"  and 
Matthew  Arnold  **  the  Father  of  Eyeglasses." 

I  have  accepted  most  of  the  excisions.    Proposed  titles  — 

The  Innocent  Muse. 
A  Child's  Garden  of  Rhymes. 
Songs  of  the  Playroom. 
Nursery  Songs. 

I  like  the  first  ?  R.  L.  S. 


TO  Mr.  Simoneau 

This  friend  was  the  keeper  of  the  inn  and  restaurant  where  Stevenson 
had  boarded  at  Monterey  in  the  autumn  of  1879.  In  writing  French, 
as  will  be  seen,  Stevenson  had  always  more  grip  of  idiom  than  of 
grammar. 

[La  Solitude,  Hyeres,  May  or  June,  1883,] 
MON  CHER  ET  BON  SIMONEAU, —  J *ai  commencd  plu- 
sieurs  fois  de  vous  dcrire ;  et  voilk-t-il  pas  qu'un  emp^che- 

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MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

ment  quelconque  est  arriv^  toujours.    La  lettre  ne  part    1883 
pas;  et  je  vous  laisse  toujours  dans  le droit  de soup^onner  ^^'  ^* 
mon  coeur.     Mon  bon  ami,  ne  pensez  pas  que  je  vous  ai 
oublie  ou  que  je  vous  oublierai  jamais.     II  n'en  est  de 
rien.    Votre  bon  souvenir  me  tient  de  bien  pr^s,  et  je  le 
garderai  jusqu'k  la  mort. 

J'ai  failli  mourir  de  bien  pres ;  mais  me  void  bien  retabli, 
bien  que  toujours  un  peu  chetif  et  malingre.  J'habite, 
comme  vous  voyez,  la  France.  Je  travaille  beaucoup,  et  je 
commence  k  ne  pas  etre  le  dernier ;  dejk  on  me  dispute  ce 
que  j*ecris,  et  je  n'ai  pas  h  me  plaindre  de  ce  que  Ton 
appelle  les  honoraires.  Me  voici  alors  tres  affair^,  trhs 
heureux  dans  mon  menage,  gate  par  ma  femme,  habitant 
la  plus  petite  maisonette  dans  le  plus  beau  jardin  du  monde, 
et  voyant  de  mes  fenetres  la  mer,  les  isles  d'Hy^res,  et 
les  belles  collines,  montagnes  et  forts  de  Toulon. 

Et  vous,  mon  tr^s  cher  ami  ?  Comment  celk  va-t-il } 
Comment  vous  portez-vous  ?  Comment  va  le  commerce  ? 
Comment  aimez  vous  le  pays  ?  et  I'enfant  ?  et  la  femme  ? 
Et  enfm  toutes  les  questions  possibles.  Ecrivez-moi  done 
bien  vite,  cher  Simoneau.  Et  quant  k  moi,  je  vous  promets 
que  vous  entendrez  bien  vite  parler  de  moi ;  je  vous  re- 
crirai  sous  peu,  et  je  vous  enverrai  un  de  mes  livres. 
Ceci  n'est  qu'un  serrement  de  main,  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  dear  and  kind  old  man.  — Your  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


173 


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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  Trevor  Haddon 

During  the  height  of  the  Proven9al  summer,  for  July  and  part  of 
August,  Stevenson  went  with  his  wife  to  the  Baths  of  Royat  in  Au- 
vergne  (travelling  necessarily  by  way  of  Clermont-Ferrand).  His 
parents  joined  them  at  Royat  for  part  of  their  visit.  This  and  possibly 
the  next  following  letters  were  written  during  the  trip.  The  news  here 
referred  to  was  that  his  correspondent  had  won  a  scholarship  at  the 
Slade  School. 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres.  But  just  now  writing 
FROM  Clermont-Ferrand,  July  5,  188^. 
DEAR  MR.  HADDON,— Your  note  with  its  piece  of  excel- 
lent news  duly  reached  me.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  of 
your  success:  selfishly  so;  for  it  is  pleasant  to  see  that 
one  whom  I  suppose  I  may  call  an  admirer  is  no  fool.  I 
wish  you  more  and  more  prosperity,  and  to  be  devoted 
to  your  art.  An  art  is  the  very  gist  of  life ;  it  grows 
with  you ;  you  will  never  weary  of  an  art  at  which  you 
fervently  and  superstitiously  labour.  Superstitiously :  I 
mean,  think  more  of  it  than  it  deserves;  be  blind  to  its 
faults,  as  with  a  wife  or  father;  forget  the  world  in  a 
technical  trifle.  The  world  is  very  serious;  art  is  the 
cure  of  that,  and  must  be  taken  very  lightly ;  but  to  take 
art  lightly,  you  must  first  be  stupidly  owlishly  in  earnest 
over  it.  When  1  made  Casimir  say  **Tiens"  at  the  end, 
I  made  a  blunder.  I  thought  it  was  what  Casimir  would 
have  said  and  I  put  it  down.  As  your  question  shows,  it 
should  have  been  left  out.  It  was  a  **  patch  "  of  realism, 
and  an  anti-climax.  Beware  of  realism;  it  is  the  devil; 
't  is  one  of  the  means  of  art,  and  now  they  make  it  the  end ! 
And  such  is  the  farce  of  the  age  in  which  a  man  lives, 

174 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

that  we  all,  even  those  of  us  who  most  detest  it,  sin  by     1^3 
realism.  ^^'  ^^ 

Notes  for  the  student  of  any  art. 

1.  Keep  an  intelligent  eye  upon  all  the  others.  It  is 
only  by  doing  so  that  you  come  to  see  what  Art  is :  Art 
is  the  end  common  to  them  all,  it  is  none  of  the  points  by 
which  they  differ. 

2.  In  this  age  beware  of  realism. 

3.  In  your  own  art,  bow  your  head  over  technique. 
Think  of  technique  when  you  rise  and  when  you  go  to 
bed.  Forget  purposes  in  the  meanwhile ;  get  to  love  tech- 
nical processes ;  to  glory  in  technical  successes ;  get  to  see 
the  world  entirely  through  technical  spectacles,  to  see  it  en- 
tirely in  terms  of  what  you  can  do.  Then  when  you  have 
anything  to  say,  the  language  will  be  apt  and  copious. 

My  health  is  better. 

I  have  no  photograph  just  now ;  but  when  I  get  one  you 
shall  have  a  copy.  It  will  not  be  like  me;  sometimes  I 
turn  out  a  capital,  fresh  bank  clerk ;  once  I  came  out  the 
image  of  Runjeet  Singh;  again  the  treacherous  sun  has 
fixed  me  in  the  character  of  a  travelling  evangelist.  It 's 
quite  a  lottery ;  but  whatever  the  next  venture  proves  to 
be,  soldier,  sailor,  tinker,  tailor,  you  shall  have  a  proof. 
Reciprocate.  The  truth  is  I  have  no  appearance;  a  cer- 
tain air  of  disreputability  is  the  one  constant  character 
that  my  face  presents :  the  rest  change  like  water.  But 
still  I  am  lean,  and  still  disreputable. 

Cling  to  your  youth.  It  is  an  artistic  stock  in  trade. 
Don't  give  in  that  you  are  ageing,  and  you  won't  age.  I 
have  exactly  the  same  faults  and  qualities  still ;  only  a  lit- 
tle duller,  greedier  and  better  tempered ;  a  little  less  tol- 
erant of  pain  and  more  tolerant  of  tedium.  The  last  is  a 
greatthing  for  life  but — query  ?  —a  bad  endowment  for  art  ? 

175 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1883  Another  note  for  the  art  student. 
*  ^^  4.  See  the  good  in  other  people's  work ;  it  will  never 
be  yours.  See  the  bad  in  your  own,  and  don't  cry  about 
it;  it  will  be  there  always.  Try  to  use  your  faults;  at 
any  rate  use  your  knowledge  of  them,  and  don't  run  your 
head  against  stone  walls.  Art  is  not  like  theology ;  noth- 
ing is  forced.  You  have  not  to  represent  the  world.  You 
have  to  represent  only  what  you  can  represent  with  pleas- 
ure and  effect,  and  the  only  way  to  find  out  what  that  is 
is  by  technical  exercise. — Yours  sincerely, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Mr.  Simoneau 

[Hyeres  or  ROY  at,  Summer,  1883,] 
MY  dear  friend  SIMONEAU,  — It  would  be  difficult  to 
tell  how  glad  I  was  to  get  your  letter  with  your  good  news 
and  kind  remembrances,  it  did  my  heart  good  to  the  bot- 
tom. I  shall  never  forget  the  good  time  we  had  together, 
the  many  long  talks,  the  games  of  chess,  the  flute  on  an 
occasion,  and  the  excellent  food.  Now  I  am  in  clover, 
only  my  health  a  mere  ruined  temple;  the  ivy  grows 
along  its  shattered  front,  otherwise,  1  have  no  wish  that 
is  not  fulfilled :  a  beautiful  large  garden,  a  fine  view  of 
plain,  sea  and  mountain ;  a  wife  that  suits  me  down  to  the 
ground,  and  a  barrel  of  good  Beaujolais.  To  this  I  must 
add  that  my  books  grow  steadily  more  popular,  and  if  1 
could  only  avoid  illness  I  should  be  well  to  do  for  money, 
as  it  is,  I  keep  pretty  near  the  wind.  Have  I  other  means } 
1  doubt  it.  I  saw  Francois  here ;  and  it  was  in  some  re- 
spects sad  to  see  him,  pining  in  the  ungenial  life  and  not, 
I  think,  very  well  pleased  with  his  relatives.     The  young 

176 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

men,  it  is  true,  adored  him,  but  his  niece  tried  to  pump    ^^3 
me  about  what  money  1  had,  with  an  effrontery  I  was  ^^'  "^^ 
glad  to  disappoint.     How  he  spoke  of  you  I  need  not  tell 
you.     He  is  your  true  friend,  dear  Simoneau,  and  your 
ears  should  have  tingled  when  we  met,  for  we  talked  of 
little  but  yourself. 

The  papers  you  speak  about  are  past  dates  but  I  will 
send  you  a  paper  from  time  to  time,  as  soon  as  I  am  able 
to  go  out  again.  We  were  both  well  pleased  to  hear  of 
your  marriage,  and  both  Mrs.  Stevenson  and  myself  beg 
to  be  remembered  with  the  kindest  wishes  to  Mrs.  Simon- 
eau. I  am  glad  you  have  done  this.  All  races  are  better 
away  from  their  own  country ;  but  I  think  you  French 
improve  the  most  of  all.  At  home,  I  like  you  well  enough, 
but  give  me  the  Frenchman  abroad !  Had  you  stayed  at 
home,  you  would  probably  have  acted  otherwise.  Con- 
sult your  consciousness,  and  you  will  think  as  I  do.  How 
about  a  law  condemning  the  people  of  every  country  to  be 
educated  in  another,  to  change  sons  in  short?  Should  we 
not  gain  all  around  ?  Would  not  the  Englishman  unlearn 
hypocrisy  ?  Would  not  the  Frenchman  learn  to  put  some 
heart  into  his  friendships  ?  I  name  what  strikes  me  as  the 
two  most  obvious  defects  of  the  two  nations.  The  French 
might  also  learn  to  be  a  little  less  rapacious  to  women  and 
the  English  to  be  a  little  more  honest. 

Indeed  their  merits  and  defects  make  a  balance. 

The  English.  The  French, 

hypocrites  free  from  hypocrisy 

good,  stout  reliable  friends         incapable  of  friendship 
dishonest  to  the  root  fairly  honest 

fairly  decent  to  women.  rather  indecent  to  women. 

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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1883  There  is  my  table,  not  at  all  the  usual  one,  but  yes,  1 
^^'  ^^  think  you  will  agree  with  it.  And  by  travel,  each  race 
can  cure  much  of  its  defects  and  acquire  much  of  the 
others'  virtues.  Let  us  say  that  you  and  I  are  complete ! ! 
You  are  anyway:  I  would  not  change  a  hair  of  you.  The 
Americans  hold  the  English  faults :  dishonest  and  hypo- 
crites, perhaps  not  so  strongly  but  still  to  the  exclusion  of 
others.  It  is  strange  that  such  mean  defects  should  be  so 
hard  to  eradicate,  after  a  century  of  separation, ,  and  so 
great  an  admixture  of  other  blood. 

Your  stay  in  Mexico  must  have  been  interesting  in- 
deed :  and  it  is  natural  you  should  be  so  keen  against  the 
Church  on  this  side,  we  have  a  painful  exhibition  on  the 
other  side:  the  lihre-penseur  a  mere  priest  without  the 
sacraments,  the  narrowest  tyranny  of  intolerance  popular, 
and  in  fact  a  repetition  in  the  XlXth  century  of  theological 
ill-feeling  minus  the  sermons.  We  have  speeches  instead. 
I  met  the  other  day  one  of  the  new  lay  schoolmasters  of 
France ;  a  pleasant  cultivated  man,  and  for  some  time  lis- 
tened to  his  ravings.  **In  short,**  I  said,  **you  are  like 
Louis  Quatorze,  you  wish  to  drive  out  of  France  all  who 
do  not  agree  with  you.'*  I  thought  he  would  protest;  not 
he ! — **  Oui,  Monsieur,**  was  his  answer.  And  that  is  the 
cause  of  liberty  and  free  thought !  But  the  race  of  man 
was  born  tyrannical ;  doubtless  Adam  beat  Eve,  and  when 
all  the  rest  are  dead  the  last  man  will  be  found  beating  the 
last  dog.  In  the  land  of  Padre  d.  R.  you  see  the  old 
tyranny  still  active  on  its  crutches;  in  this  land,  I  begin 
to  see  the  new,  a  fat  fellow,  out  of  leading-strings  and 
already  killing  flies. 

This  letter  drones  along  unprofitably  enough.  Let  me 
put  a  period  to  my  divagations.     Write  again  soon,  and 

178 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

let  me  hear  good  news  of  you,  and  I  will  try  to  be  more    1883 
quick  of  answer.  ^^'  ^^ 

And  with  the  best  wishes  to  yourself  and  all  your  fam- 
ily, believe  me,  your  sincere  friend, 

ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  MISS  Ferrier 

Soon  after  he  was  settled  again  at  Hybres,  Stevenson  had  a  great 
shock  in  the  death  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  intimate  of  his  friends 
of  Edinburgh  days,  Mr.  James  Walter  Ferrier  (see  the  essay  Old  Mor- 
tality in  Memories  and  Portraits).  It  is  in  accordance  with  the  ex- 
pressed wish  of  this  gentleman's  surviving  sister  that  publicity  is  given 
to  the  following  letters  : 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres  [September,  188^]. 

MY  dear  MISS  FERRIER,  —  They  say  Walter  is  gone. 
You,  who  know  how  I  have  neglected  him,  will  conceive 
my  remorse.  I  had  another  letter  written ;  when  I  heard 
he  was  worse,  I  promised  myself  to  wake  up  for  the  last 
time.     Alas,  too  late ! 

My  dear  Walter,  set  apart  that  terrible  disease,  was,  in 
his  right  mind,  the  best  and  gentlest  gentleman.  God 
knows  he  would  never  intentionally  hurt  a  soul. 

Well,  he  is  done  with  his  troubles  and  out  of  his  long 
sickness,  and  I  dare  say  is  glad  to  be  at  peace  and  out  of 
the  body,  which  in  him  seemed  the  enemy  of  the  fine  and 
kind  spirit.  He  is  the  first  friend  I  have  ever  lost,  and  I  find 
it  difficult  to  say  anything  and  fear  to  intrude  upon  your 
grief.    But  I  had  to  try  to  tell  you  how  much  I  shared  it. 

Could  you  get  any  one  to  tell  me  particulars  ?  Do  not 
write  yourself  of  course — I  do  not  mean  that ;  but  some 
one  else.  R.  L.  S. 

179 


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JET.  32 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  Miss  Ferrier 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres,  soth  Sept,  188^. 

MY  DEAR  MISS  FERRIER, —  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  your  letter  and  was  interested  by  all  you  told  me.  Yes, 
I  know  it  is  better  for  him  to  be  gone,  and  what  you  say 
helps  me  to  realise  that  it  is  so — I  did  not  know  how  much 
he  had  suffered ;  it  is  so  that  we  are  cured  of  life.  I  am 
a  little  afraid  to  write  or  think  much  of  Walter  just  yet ; 
as  I  have  not  quite  recovered  the  news  and  I  have  my 
work  and  my  wife  to  think  of. 

Some  day  soon  when  the  sharpness  passes  off  (if  it  does) 
I  must  try  to  write  some  more  of  what  he  was :  he  was 
so  little  understood.  I  don't  suppose  any  one  knew  him 
better  than  I  did.  But  just  now  it  is  difficult  to  think  of 
him.  For  you  1  do  mourn  indeed,  and  admire  your  cour- 
age: the  loss  is  terrible.  I  have  no  portrait  of  him.  Is 
there  one  ?  If  so  please  let  me  have  it :  if  it  has  to  be 
copied  please  let  it  be. 

Henley  seems  to  have  been  as  good  to  dear  Walter  as 
he  is  to  all.  That  introduction  was  a  good  turn  I  did  to 
both.  It  seems  so  strange  for  a  friendship  to  begin  all  these 
years  ago  with  so  much  mirth  and  now  to  end  with  this 
sorrow.  Our  little  lives  are  moments  in  the  wake  of 
the  eternal  silence:  but  how  crowded  while  they  last. 
His  has  gone  down  in  peace. 

I  was  not  certainly  the  best  companion  for  Walter,  but 
I  do  believe  I  was  the  best  he  had.  In  these  early  days 
he  was  not  fortunate  in  friends — looking  back  I  see  most 
clearly  how  much  we  both  wanted  a  man  of  riper  wisdom. 
We  had  no  religion  between  the  pair  of  us — that  was  the 

180 


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MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

flaw.  How  very  different  was  our  last  intimacy  in  Glad-  1883 
stone  Terrace.  But  youth  must  learn — looking  back  over 
these  wasted  opportunities,  I  must  try  rather  to  remember 
what  1  did  right,  than  to  bewail  the  much  that  I  left  undone 
and  knew  not  how  to  do.  1  see  that  even  you  have  allowed 
yourself  to  have  regrets.  Dear  Miss  Ferrier,  sure  you  were 
his  angel.  We  all  had  something  to  be  glad  of,  in  so  far 
as  we  had  understood  and  loved  and  perhaps  a  little  helped 
the  gentle  spirit;  but  you  may  certainly  be  proud.  He 
always  loved  you;  and  I  remember  in  his  worst  days 
spoke  of  you  with  great  affection ;  a  thing  unusual  with 
him ;  for  he  was  walking  very  wild  and  blind  and  had  no 
true  idea  whether  of  himself  or  life.  The  lifting  afterwards 
was  beautiful  and  touching.  Dear  Miss  Ferrier,  I  have 
given  your  kind  messages  to  my  wife  who  feels  for  you 
and  reciprocates  the  hope  to  meet.  When  it  may  come  off 
1  know  not.  1  feel  almost  ashamed  to  say  that  I  keep 
better,  1  feel  as  if  like  Mrs.  Leslie  **you  must  hate  me  for 
it" — still  I  can  very  easily  throw  back  whether  by  fatigue 
or  want  of  care,  and  I  do  not  like  to  build  plans  for  my 
return  to  my  own  land.  Is  there  no  chance  of  your  com- 
ing hereabouts.?  Though  we  cannot  in  our  small  and 
disorderly  house  offer  a  lady  a  room,  one  can  be  got  close 
by  and  we  can  offer  possible  board  and  a  most  lovely 
little  garden  for  a  lounge.  Please  remember  me  kindly 
to  your  brother  John  and  Sir  A.  and  Lady  Grant  and  be- 
lieve me  with  hearty  sympathy  —  Yours  most  sincerely, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

1  was  rejoiced  to  hear  he  never  doubted  of  my  love,  but 
1  must  cure  my  hate  of  correspondence.  This  has  been 
a  sharp  lesson. 

181 


i883 

^T.  32 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

It  will  be  remembered  that  "  Whistles  "  or  "  Penny  Whistles  "  was 
his  own  name  for  the  verses  of  the  Child's  Garden.  The  proposal 
referred  to  at  the  end  of  this  letter  was  one  which  had  reached  him 
from  Messrs.  Lippincott,  the  American  publishers,  for  a  sailing  trip  to 
be  taken  among  the  Greek  Islands  and  made  the  subject  of  a  book. 

La  SOLITUDE,  Hyeres  [October,  r88ji\. 

My  dear  excellent,  admired,  volcanic  angel  of  a  lad, 
trusty  as  a  dog,  eruptive  as  Vesuvius,  in  all  things  great, 
in  all  the  soul  of  loyalty :  greeting. 

That  you  are  better  spirits  me  up  good.  I  have  had  no 
colour  of  a  Mag.  of  Art.  From  here,  here  in  Highairs  the 
Palm-trees,  I  have  heard  your  conversation.  It  came  here 
in  the  form  of  a  Mistral,  and  I  said  to  myself.  Damme, 
there  is  some  Henley  at  the  foot  of  this ! 

I  shall  try  to  do  the  Whistle  as  suggested ;  but  I  can 
usually  do  whistles  only  by  giving  my  whole  mind  to  it : 
to  produce  even  such  limping  verse  demanding  the  whole 
forces  of  my  untuneful  soul.  I  have  other  two  anyway : 
better  or  worse.  I  am  now  deep,  deep,  ocean  deep  in 
Otto :  a  letter  is  a  curst  distraction,  about  100  pp.  are  near 
fit  for  publication ;  I  am  either  making  a  spoon  or  spoiling 
the  horn  of  a  Caledonian  bull,  with  that  airy  potentate. 
God  help  me,  I  bury  a  lot  of  labour  in  that  principality ; 
and  if  I  am  not  greatly  a  gainer,  I  am  a  great  loser  and  a 
great  fool.  However,  sursum  corda;  faint  heart  never 
writ  romance. 

Your  Dumas  I  think  exquisite;  it  might  even  have 
been  stronglier  said :  the  brave  old  godly  pagan,  I  adore 
his  big  footprints  on  the  earth. 

Z83 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

Have  you  read  Meredith's  Uxve  in  the  Valley  ?    It  got    1883 
me,  I  wept ;  1  remembered  that  poetry  existed. 

'*  When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laughing  mirror.*' 

I  propose  if  they  (Lippincotts)  will  let  me  wait  till  next 
Autumn,  and  go  when  it  is  safest,  to  accept  £^^0  with 
L\QO  down ;  but  it  is  now  too  late  to  go  this  year.  No- 
vember and  December  are  the  months  when  it  is  safest; 
and  the  back  of  the  season  is  broken.  1  shall  gain  much 
knowledge  by  the  trip ;  this  1  look  upon  as  one  of  the 
main  inducements.  R.  L.  S. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Of  the  "  small  ships  "  here  mentioned,  Fontainebleau  and  The  Chat' 
acter  0/ Dogs  zre  "well  kno'wn  :  j^  Misadventure  in  France  is  probably 
a  draft  of  the  Epilogue  to  an  Inland  Voyage,  not  published  till  five 
years  later.  The  Travelling  Companion  (of  which  1  remember  little 
except  that  its  scene  was  partly  laid  in  North  Italy  and  that  a  publisher 
to  whom  it  was  shown  declared  it  a  work  of  genius  but  indecent)  was 
abandoned  some  two  years  later,  as  set  forth  on  p.  205  of  this  volume. 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres  [November,  188^]. 
;^io,ooo  Pounds  Reward ! 
Whereas  Sidney  Colvin,  more  generally  known  as  the 
Guardian  Angel,  has  vanished  from  the  gaze  of  Mr.  R.  L. 
Stevenson,  the  above  reward  is  offered  as  a  means  to  dis- 
cover the  whereabouts  of  the  misguided  gentleman.  He 
was  known  as  a  man  of  irregular  habits,  and  his  rowdy 
exterior  would  readily  attract  attention  in  a  crowd.  He 
was  never  known  to  resist  a  drink ;  whiskey  was  his  fa- 
vourite dish.  If  any  one  will  bring  him  to  Mr.  Stevenson's 
back  area  door,  dead  or  alive,  the  greatest  rejoicing  will 
be  felt  by  a  bereaved  and  uneasy  family. 

183 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1883  Also,  wherefore  not  a  word,  dear  Colvin  ?  My  news 
^  '  ^^  is:  splendid  health;  great  success  of  the  Black  Arrow; 
another  tale  demanded,  readers  this  time  (the  Lord  lighten 
them !)  pleased ;  a  great  variety  of  small  ships  launched  or 
still  upon  the  stocks — (also,  why  not  send  the  annotated 
proof  of  Fontainehleau?  ce  n'est  pas  d'un  bon  camarade); 
a  paper  on  dogs  for  Carr ;  ^  a  paper  called  Old  Mortality ^ 
a  paper  called  A  Misadventure  in  France,  a  tale  entituled 
The  Travelling  Companion;  Otto  arrested  one  foot  in  air ; 
and  last  and  not  least,  a  great  demand  for  news  of  Sidney 
Colvin  and  others.  Herewith  I  pause,  for  why  should  I 
cast  pearls  before  swine  ? 

A  word.  Guardian  Angel.  You  are  much  loved  in  this 
house,  not  by  me  only,  but  by  the  wife.  The  Wogg  him- 
self is  anxious. — Ever  yours  affectionately, 

R.  L.  S. 


TO  W.  E.  Henley 

This  refers  to  some  dispute  which  had  arisen  with  an  editor  (I  forget 
whom)  concerning  the  refusal  of  an  article  on  Salvini.  **  Fastidious 
Brisk  "  was  a  name  coined  by  Mr.  Henley  for  Stevenson  —  very  inap- 
propriately as  I  always  thought. 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres,  Autumn,  188^. 
MY  DEAR  LAD,— You  know  your  own  business  best; 
but  I  wish  your  honesty  were  not  so  warfaring.  These 
conflicts  pain  Lucretian  sitters  on  the  shore;  and  one 
wonders — one  wonders— wonders  and  whimpers.  I  do 
not  say  my  attitude  is  noble ;  but  is  yours  conciliatory  ? 
I  revere  Salvini,  but  I  shall  never  see  him— nor  anybody — 
play  again.     That  is  all  a  matter  of  history,  heroic  history, 

*  Mr.  J.  Comyns  Carr,  at  this  time  editing  the  English  Illustrated 
Magazine. 

184 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

to  me.     Were  I  in  London,  I  should  be  the  liker  Tantalus—    1883 
no  more.     But  as  for  these  quarrels :  in  not  many  years  ^^'  ^^ 
shall  we  not  all  be  clay-cold  and  safe  below  ground,  you 
with  your  loud-mouthed  integrity,  I  with  my  fastidious 
briskness— and— with  all  their  faults  and  merits,  swal-        ' 
lowed  in  silence.     It  seems  to  me,  in  ignorance  of  cause, 
that  when  the  dustman  has  gone  by,  these  quarrellings 
will  prick  the  conscience.     Am  I  wrong  ?     I  am  a  great 
sinner;  so,  my  brave  friend,  are  you;  the  others  also. 
Let  us  a  little  imitate  the  divine  patience  and  the  divine 
sense  of  humour,  and  smilingly  tolerate  those  faults  and 
virtues  that  have  so  brief  a  period  and  so  intertwined  a 
being. 

I  fear  I  was  born  a  parson ;  but  I  live  very  near  upon 
the  margin  (though,  by  your  leave,  I  may  outlive  you 
all!),  and  too  much  rigour  in  these  daily  things  sounds  to 
me  like  clatter  on  the  kitchen  dishes.  If  it  might  be — 
could  it  not  be  smoothed?  This  very  day  my  father 
writes  me  he  has  gone  to  see,  upon  his  deathbed,  an  old 
friend  to  whom  for  years  he  has  not  spoken  or  written. 
On  his  deathbed;  no  picking  up  of  the  lost  stitches; 
merely  to  say:  my  little  fury,  my  spotted  uprightness, 
after  having  split  our  lives,  have  not  a  word  of  quarrel  to 
say  more.  And  the  same  post  brings  me  the  news  of 
another — War!  Things  in  this  troubled  medium  are  not 
so  clear,  dear  Henley ;  there  are  faults  upon  all  hands ;  and 
the  end  comes,  and  Ferrier's  grave  gapes  for  us  all. 
The  Prosy  Preacher 
(But  written  in  deep  dejection,  my  dear  man). 

Suppose  they  are  wrong?     Well,  am  I  not  tolerated, 
are  you  not  tolerated  ?  — we  and  our  faults  ? 

185 


i884 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  W.  E.  Henley 

Early  in  January,  Stevenson,  after  a  week's  visit  at  Hyeres  fronn  his 
friends  Charles  Baxter  and  W.  E.  Henley,  accompanied  them  as  far  as 
Nice,  and  there  suddenly  went  down  with  an  attack  of  acute  conges- 
tion, first  of  the  lungs  and  then  of  the  kidneys.  At  one  moment  there 
seemed  no  hope,  but  he  recovered  slowly  and  returned  to  Hyeres.  His 
friends  had  not  written  during  his  illness,  fearing  him  to  be  too  far  gone 
to  care  for  letters.     As  he  got  better  he  began  to  chafe  at  their  silence. 

[HYERES,  February  or  March,  1884.] 

ONisaa  waaMVi 

I  CANNOT  read,  work,  sleep,  lie  still,  walk,  or  even  play 
patience.  These  plagues  will  overtake  all  damned  silen- 
cists;  among  whom,  from  this  day  out,  number 

the  fiery  indignator 

Roland  Little  Stevenson.  *c 

o 

E 

I  counted  miseries  by  the  heap,  ^ 

But  now  have  had  my  fill,  g 

I  cannot  see,  I  do  not  sleep,  .-g 

But  shortly  I  shall  hill,  ^ 

3 
Of  many  letters,  here  is  a  ^ 

Full  End. 
The  last  will  and  testament  of 
a  demitting  correspondent. 

My  indefatigable  pen 
I  here  lay  down  for  ever.     Men 
Have  used,  an^  left  me,  and  forgot; 
186 


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P 

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^' 

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•-t 

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pos 

O) 

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ft 

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«>■§ 

P 

1 

o* 

(-+• 

ft 

D* 

D 

O) 

n 

O) 

MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

Men  are  entirely  off  the  spot;  1884 

Men  are  a  blague  and  an  abuse ;  '  "^"^ 

And  I  commit  them  to  the  deuce ! 

RODERICK  LAMOND  STEVENSON. 


1  had  companions,  I  had  friends, 
I  had  of  whiskey  various  blends. 
The  whiskey  was  all  drunk ;  and  lo ! 
The  friends  were  gone  for  evermo ! 


•9DB9d  :^B  UBUJ  snop^nboj  9qx 

And  when  I  marked  the  ingratitude, 
I  to  my  maker  turned,  and  spewed. 

Randolph  Lovel  Stevenson. 


A  pen  broken,  a  subverted  ink-pot. 

All  men  are  rot;  but  there  are  two — 
Sidney,  the  oblivious  Slade,  and  you- 


(U 


Who  from  the  rabble  stand  confest  •§ 

Ten  million  times  the  rottenest.  ^  ^ 


Du 


a 


■  o  a 
When  I  was  sick  and  safe  in  gaol  £  ^  6 


R.  L.  S.      w  .5  ^ 

a 

—     VJ     <-5 

?  c  E 


U^ 


I  thought  my  friends  would  never  fail.     3  ^ 
One  wrote  me  nothing ;  t'  other  bard       ^ 
Sent  me  an  insolent  post-card.  ^ 

R.  L.  S. 
187 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1884     H  IF  NOBODY  WRITES  TO  ME  I  g 

'^'''  ^^    3  SHALL  DIE  .2 

B.  c: 

^       I  now  write  no  more.  ^ 

g  Richard  Lefanu  Stevenson,     ^ 

3  Duke  of  Indignation  \Z 

CO 

Z 

E 
witnesses. 


f 

Mark  Tacebo,  Isaac  Blood 

Secretary  John  Blind 

Vain-hope  Go-to-bed 

Israel  Sciatica 

The  finger  on  the  mouth. 


TO  W.  E.  Henley 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres,  April  20th,  1884, 
I  HAVE  been  really  ill  for  two  days,  hemorrhage,  weak- 
ness, extreme  nervousness  that  will  not  let  me  lie  a  mo- 
ment, and  damned  sciatica  0'  nights;  but  to-day  I  am  on 
the  recovery.  Time;  for  I  was  miserable.  It  is  not  often 
that  I  suffer,  with  all  my  turns  and  tumbles,  from  the 
sense  of  serious  illness ;  and  I  hate  it,  as  I  believe  every- 
body does.  And  then  the  combination  of  not  being  able 
to  read,  not  being  allowed  to  speak,  being  too  weak  to 
write,  and  not  wishing  to  eat,  leaves  a  man  with  some 
empty  seconds.  But  I  bless  God,  it 's  over  now;  to-day  I 
am  much  mended. 

Insatiable  gulf,  greedier  than  hell,  and  more  silent  than 
the  woods  of  Styx,  have  you  or  have  you  not  lost  the 
dedication  to  the  Child's  Garden  ?  Answer  that  plain  ques- 
tion, as  otherwise  1  must  try  to  tackle  to  it  once  again. 

188 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 


Sciatica  is  a  word  employed  much  by  Shakespeare  in  a    1884 


certain  connection.  'T  is  true,  he  was  no  physician,  but 
as  I  read,  he  had  smarted  in  his  day.  1,  too,  do  smart. 
And  yet  this  keen  soprano  agony,  these  veins  of  fire  and 
bombshell  explosions  in  the  knee,  are  as  nothing  to  a  cer- 
tain dull,  drowsy  pain  I  had  when  my  kidneys  were  con- 
gested at  Nice;  there  was  death  in  that;  the  creak  of 
Charon's  rowlocks,  and  the  miasmas  of  the  Styx.  I  may 
say  plainly,  much  as  I  have  lost  the  power  of  bearing  pain, 
I  had  still  rather  suffer  much  than  die.  Not  only  the  love 
of  life  grows  on  me,  but  the  fear  of  certain  odd  end-seconds 
grows  as  well.  'T  is  a  suffocating  business,  take  it  how 
you  will ;  and  Tyrrel  and  Forest  only  bunglers. 

Well,  this  is  an  essay  on  death,  or  worse,  on  dying :  to 
return  to  daylight  and  the  winds,  I  perceive  I  have  grown 
to  live  too  much  in  my  work  and  too  little  in  life.  T  is 
the  dollars  do  it:  the  world  is  too  much.  Whenever  I 
think  I  would  like  to  live  a  little,  I  hear  the  butcher's  cart 
resounding  through  the  neighbourhood ;  and  so  to  plunge 
again.  The  fault  is  a  good  fault  for  me ;  to  be  able  to  do 
so,  is  to  succeed  in  life ;  and  my  life  has  been  a  huge  suc- 
cess. I  can  live  with  joy  and  without  disgust  in  the  art 
by  which  1  try  to  support  myself ;  I  have  the  best  wife  in 
the  world ;  I  have  rather  more  praise  and  nearly  as  much 
coin  as  I  deserve;  my  friends  are  many  and  true-hearted. 
Sir,  it  is  a  big  thing  in  successes.  And  if  mine  anchorage 
lies  something  open  to  the  wind,  Sciatica,  if  the  crew  are 
blind,  and  the  captain  spits  blood,  one  cannot  have  all, 
and  I  may  be  patched  up  again,  who  knows  ?  **  His  tim- 
bers yet  are  (indifferently)  sound,  and  he  may  float  again.'* 

Thanks  for  the  word  on  Silverado. — Yours  ever. 

The  Sciaticated  Bard. 
189 


^T.  33 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1884 

^'^^  ^^  TO  Trevor  Haddon 

The  allusions  to  Skelt,  the  last  of  the  designers  and  etchers  of  cheap 
sheets  illustrating  the  popular  dramas  and  melodramas  of  the  day,  will 
need  no  explanation  to  readers  familiar  with  the  essay  yi  Penny  Plain 
and  Twopence  Coloured. 

La  Solitude,  Hyeres,  April  2^d,  1884. 

DEAR  MR.  HADDON,—!  am  pleased  to  see  your  hand 
again,  and,  waiting  my  wife's  return,  to  guess  at  some  of 
the  contents.  For  various  things  have  befallen  me  of  late. 
First,  as  you  see,  1  had  to  change  my  hand ;  lastly  I  have 
fallen  into  a  kind  of  blindness,  and  cannot  read.  This 
more  inclines  me  for  something  to  do,  to  answer  your  let- 
ter before  I  have  read  it,  a  safe  plan  familiar  to  diplomatists. 

1  gather  from  half -shut  eyes  that  you  were  a  Skeltist; 
now  seriously  that  is  a  good  beginning ;  there  is  a  deal  of 
romance  (cheap)  in  Skelt.  Look  at  it  well,  and  you  will 
see  much  of  Dickens.  And  even  Skelt  is  better  than  con- 
scientious, grey  back-gardens,  and  conscientious,  dull  still 
lives.  The  great  lack  of  art  just  now  is  a  spice  of  life  and 
interest;  and  1  prefer  galvanism  to  acquiescence  in  the 
grave.  All  do  not ;  *t  is  an  affair  of  tastes ;  and  mine  are 
young.  Those  who  like  death  have  their  innings  to-day 
with  art  that  is  like  mahogany  and  horsehair  furniture, 
solid,  true,  serious  and  as  dead  as  Csesar.  I  wish  I  could 
read  Treasure  Island;  I  believe  I  should  like  it.  But  work 
done,  for  the  artist,  is  the  Golden  Goose  killed ;  you  sell 
its  feathers  and  lament  the  eggs.  To-morrow  the  fresh 
woods ! 

I  have  been  seriously  ill,  and  do  not  pick  up  with  that 
finality  that  I  should  like  to  see.  I  linger  over  and  digest 
my  convalescence  like  a  favourite  wine;  and  what  with 

190 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

blindness,  green  spectacles,  and  seclusion,  cut  but  a  poor     1884 
figure  in  the  world.  '  '^'^ 

I  made  out  at  the  end  that  you  were  asking  some  advice 
—  but  what,  my  failing  eyes  refuse  to  inform  me.  I  must 
keep  a  sheet  for  the  answer;  and  Mrs.  Stevenson  still 
delays,  and  still  I  have  no  resource  against  tedium  but  the 
waggling  of  this  pen. 

You  seem  to  me  to  be  a  pretty  lucky  young  man ;  keep 
your  eyes  open  to  your  mercies.  That  part  of  piety 
is  eternal;  and  the  man  who  forgets  to  be  grateful  has 
fallen  asleep  in  life.  Please  to  recognise  that  you  are 
unworthy  of  all  that  befalls  you — unworthy,  too,  I  hear 
you  wail,  of  this  terrible  sermon;  but  indeed  we  are  not 
worthy  of  our  fortunes ;  love  takes  us  in  a  counterfeit, 
success  comes  to  us  at  play,  health  stays  with  us  while 
we  abuse  her ;  and  even  when  we  gird  at  our  fellow-men, 
we  should  remember  that  it  is  of  their  good  will  alone, 
that  we  still  live  and  still  have  claims  to  honour.  The 
sins  of  the  most  innocent,  if  they  were  exactly  visited, 
would  ruin  them  to  the  doer.  And  if  you  know  any  man 
who  believes  himself  to  be  worthy  of  a  wife's  love,  a 
friend's  affection,  a  mistress's  caress,  even  if  venal,  you 
may  rest  assured  he  is  worthy  of  nothing  but  a  kicking.  I 
fear  men  who  have  no  open  faults ;  what  do  they  conceal  ? 
We  are  not  meant  to  be  good  in  this  world,  but  to  try  to 
be,  and  fail,  and  keep  on  trying ;  and  when  we  get  a  cake 
to  say,  "Thank  God !"  and  when  we  get  a  buffet,  to 
say,  ** Just  so:  well  hit!" 

I  have  been  getting  some  of  the  buffets  of  late;  but 
have  amply  earned  them — you  need  not  pity  me.  Pity 
sick  children  and  the  individual  poor  man ;  not  the  mass. 
Don't  pity  anybody  else,  and  never  pity  fools.    The  opti- 

191 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1884    mistic  Stevenson;  but  there  is  a  sense  in  these  wander- 
*^-  ^3  ings. 

Now  I  have  heard  your  letter,  and  my  sermon  was  not 
mal-k-propos.  For  you  seem  to  be  complaining.  Every- 
body's home  is  depressing,  I  believe ;  it  is  their  difficult 
business  to  make  it  less  so.  There  is  an  unpleasant  say- 
ing, which  would  have  pricked  me  sharply  at  your  age. — 
Yours  truly,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

Enclosing  some  supplementary  verses  for  the  Child's  Garden. 

fAARSElLLES,  June,  1884. 
DEAR  S.  C,  —  Are  these  four  in  time?  No  odds  about 
order.  1  am  at  Marseille  and  stood  the  journey  wonder- 
fully. Better  address  Hotel  Chabassi^re,  Royat,  Puy  de 
D6me.  You  see  how  this  d — d  poeshie  flows  from  me 
in  sickness :  Are  they  good  or  bad  ?  Wha  kens  ?  But 
1  like  the  Little  Land,  I  think,  as  well  as  any.  As  time 
goes  on  I  get  more  fancy  in.  We  have  no  money,  but  a 
valet  and  a  maid.  The  valet  is  no  end ;  how  long  can  you 
live  on  a  valet  ?  Vive  le  valet !  I  am  tempted  to  call 
myself  a  valetudinarian.  1  love  my  love  with  a  V  because 
he  is  a  Valetudinarian ;  I  took  him  to  Valetta  or  Valais, 
gave  him  his  Vails  and  tenderly  addressed  him  with  one 
word, 

Vale. 

P,S, — It  does  not  matter  of  course  about  order.  As 
soon  as  I  have  all  the  slips  I  shall  organise  the  book  for  the 
publisher.  A  set  of  8  will  be  put  together  under  the  title 
An  Only  Child;  another  cycle  of  10  will  be  called  In  the 

192 


MARSEILLES  AND  HYERES 

Garden  and  other  six  called  Bedtime  to  end  all  up.     It  will     1884 
now  make  quite  a  little  volume  of  a  good  way  upwards  of  ^^'  ^^ 
100  pp.     Will  you  instruct  Bain  to  send  me  a  Bible ;  of  a 
type  that  1  can  read  without  blindness ;  the  better  if  with 
notes;  there  is  a  Clarendon  Press  Bible,  pray  see  it  your- 
self.    I  also  want  Ewald's  History  in  a  translation. 

R.  L.  S. 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

The  play  of  Deacon  Brodie,  the  joint  work  of  R.  L.  S.  and  W.  E.  H., 
was  to  be  performed  in  London  early  in  July. 

[HOTEL  Chabassiere,  Royat,  July,  1884.] 
DEAR  S.  C,  —  Books  received  with  great  thanks.  Very 
nice  books,  though  I  see  you  underrate  my  cecity :  I  could 
no  more  read  their  beautiful  Bible  than  I  could  sail  in 
heaven.  However,  I  have  sent  for  another  and  can  read 
the  rest  for  patience. 

I  quite  understand  your  feelings  about  the  Deacon, 
which  is  a  far  way  behind;  but  I  get  miserable  when  I 
think  of  Henley  cutting  this  splash  and  standing,  I  fear,  to 
lose  a  great  deal  of  money.  It  is  about  Henley,  not  Brodie, 
that  I  care.  I  fear  my  affections  are  not  strong  to  my 
past  works;  they  are  blotted  out  by  others;  and  anyhow 
the  Deacon  is  damn  bad. 

1  am  half  asleep  and  can  no  more  discourse.  Say  to 
your  friends,  ''  Look  here,  some  friends  of  mine  are  bring- 
ing out  a  play ;  it  has  some  stuff ;  suppose  you  go  and  see 
it."  But  I  know  I  am  a  cold,  unbelieving  fellow,  incapable 
of  those  hot  claps  that  honour  you  and  Henley  and  there- 
fore—I am  asleep.  Child's  Garden  (first  instalment)  come. 
Fanny  ill ;  self  asleep.  R.  L.  S. 

193 


i884 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  W.  E.  Henley 

I  suppose,  but  cannot  remember,  that  I  had  in  the  meantime  sent 
him  Captain  Singleton. 

[HOTEL  CHABASSIERE,  ROYAT,  July,  1884,] 

DEAR  BOY,  —  I  am  glad  that has  disappointed 

you.  Depend  upon  it,  nobody  is  so  bad  as  to  be  worth 
scalping,  except  your  dearest  friends  and  parents;  and 
scalping  them  may  sometimes  be  avoided  by  scalping  your- 
self. I  grow  daily  more  lymphatic  and  benign ;  bring  me 
a  dynamiter,  that  I  may  embrace  and  bless  him! — So,  if 
I  continue  to  evade  the  friendly  hemorrhage,  I  shall  be 
spared  in  anger  to  pour  forth  senile  and  insignificant  vol- 
umes, and  the  clever  lads  in  the  journals,  not  doubting  of 
the  eye  of  Nemesis,  shall  mock  and  gird  at  me. 

All  this  seems  excellent  news  of  the  Deacon,  But  O ! 
that  the  last  tableau,  on  from  Leslie's  entrance,  were  re- 
written !  We  had  a  great  opening  there  and  missed  it.  I 
read  for  the  first  time  Captain  Singleton;  it  has  points; 
and  then  I  re-read  Colonel  Jack  with  ecstasy;  the  first  part 
is  as  much  superior  to  Robinson  Crusoe  as  Robinson  is  to — 
The  Inland  Voyage.  It  is  pretty,  good,  philosophical,  dra- 
matic, and  as  picturesque  as  a  promontory  goat  in  a  gale 
of  wind.     Get  it  and  fill  your  belly  with  honey. 

Fanny  hopes  to  be  in  time  for  the  Deacon,  I  was  out 
yesterday,  and  none  the  worse.     We  leave  Monday. 

R.  L.  S. 


194 


vn 

LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 
(September,  i884-december,  i88$) 


VII 
LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

(September,  i884-December,  1885) 

TO  W.   E.   HENLEY  1884 

/ET.  33 
BONALLIE  TOWERS,  BOURNEMOUTH, 

November  11,  1884. 

DEAR  BOY,— I  have  been  nearly  smashed  altogether; 
fever  and  chills,  with  really  very  considerable  suffering; 
and  to  my  deep  gloom  and  some  fear  about  the  future, 
work  has  had  to  stop.  There  was  no  way  out  of  it ;  yes- 
terday and  to-day  nothing  would  come,  it  was  a  mere 
waste  of  tissue,  productive  of  spoiled  paper. 

1  hope  it  will  not  last  long;  for  the  bum-baily  is  panting 
at  my  rump,  and  when  1  turn  a  scared  eye  across  my 
shoulder,  I  behold  his  talons  quivering  above  my  frock- 
coat  tails. 

Gosse  has  writ  to  offer  me  ;^40  for  a  Christmas  number 
ghost  story  for  the  Pall  Mall:  eight  thousand  words.  I 
have,  with  some  conditions,  accepted;  I  pray  Heaven  I 
may  be  able  to  do  it.  But  1  am  not  sure  that  my  inca- 
pacity to  work  is  wholly  due  to  illness ;  I  believe  the  mor- 
phine 1  have  been  taking  for  my  bray  may  have  a  hand 
in  it.  It  moderates  the  bray,  but  I  think,  sews  up  the 
donkey. 

I  think  my  wife  is  a  little  better.  If  only  I  could  get  in 
trim,  and  get  this  work  done,  I  should  be  quite  chipper. 

R.  L.  S. 
197 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1884 

^T.  34  TO  W.  E.  Henley 

BONALLiE  Towers,  Bournemouth, 
Nov,  75,  1884, 

MY  DEAR  BOY, — A  thousand  thanks  for  the  MolUre.  I 
have  already  read,  in  this  noble  presentment.  La  Comtesse 
d'Escarbagnas,  Le  Malade  Imaginaire,  and  a  part  of  Les 
Femmes  Savantes;  I  say,  Poquelin  took  damned  good  care 
of  himself :  Argan  and  Arysule,  what  parts !  Many  thanks 
also  for  John  Silver's  pistol;  I  recognise  it;  that  was  the 
one  he  gave  Jim  Hawkins  at  the  mouth  of  the  pit;  I  shall 
get  a  plate  put  upon  it  to  that  effect. 

My  birthday  was  a  great  success ;  I  was  better  in  health ; 
I  got  delightful  presents ;  I  received  the  definite  commis- 
sion from  the  P.M.G.,  and  began  to  write  the  tale;  and 
in  the  evening  Bob  arrived,  a  simple  seraph.  We  have 
known  each  other  ten  years;  and  here  we  are,  too,  like  the 
pair  that  met  in  the  infirmary :  why  can  we  not  mellow 
into  kindness  and  sweetness  like  Bob  ?  What  is  the  rea- 
son ?  Does  nature,  even  in  my  octogenarian  carcase,  run 
too  strong  that  I  must  be  still  a  bawler  and  a  brawler  and 
a  treader  upon  corns  ?  You,  at  least,  have  achieved  the 
miracle  of  embellishing  your  personal  appearance  to  that 
point  that,  unless  your  mother  is  a  woman  of  even  more 
perspicacity  than  I  suppose,  it  is  morally  impossible  that 
she  can  recognise  you.  When  I  saw  you  ten  years  ago, 
you  looked  rough  and — kind  of  stigmatised,  a  look  of  an 
embittered  political  shoemaker;  where  is  it  now?  You 
now  come  waltzing  around  like  some  light-hearted  mon- 
arch ;  essentially  jovial,  essentially  royal ;  radiant  of  smiles. 
And  in  the  meanwhile,  by  a  complementary  process,  1  turn 
into  a  kind  of  hunchback  with  white  hair !    The  devil. 

198 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

Well,  let  us  be  thankful  for  our  mercies :  in  these  ten  jj 
years  what  a  change  from  the  cell  in  the  hospital,  and  the 
two  sick  boys  in  the  next  bed,  to  the  influence,  the  recog- 
nition, the  liberty,  and  the  happiness  of  to-day !  Well, 
well ;  fortune  is  not  so  blind  as  people  say ;  you  dreed  a 
good  long  weird ;  but  you  have  got  into  a  fme  green  pad- 
dock now  to  kick  your  heels  in.  And  I,  too,  what  a  differ- 
ence; what  a  difference  in  my  work,  in  my  situation, 
and  unfortunately,  also  in  my  health !  But  one  need  not 
complain  of  a  pebble  in  the  shoe,  when  by  mere  justice 
one  should  rot  in  a  dungeon. 

Many  thanks  to  both  of  you;  long  life  to  our  friend- 
ship, and  that  means,  I  do  most  firmly  believe,  to  these 
clay  continents  on  which  we  fly  our  colours ;  good  luck  to 
one  and  all,  and  may  God  continue  to  be  merciful.  — Your 
old  and  warm  friend,  R.  L.  S. 


TO  W.   E.   HENLEY 

Stevenson  and  his  wife  were  still  busy  on  More  New  Arabian  Nights 
(the  romance  of  the  Great  North  Road  having  been  begun  and  post- 
poned). The  question  here  touched  is,  to  what  publishers  should  they 
be  offered. 

BONALLIE  TOWERS,  BOURNEMOUTH, 
December,  1884. 
DEAR  LAD, —For  Cassell,  I  thought  the  G.N.R.  (not 
railway  this  time)  was  the  motto.  What  are  Cassells  to 
do  with  this  eccentric  mass  of  blague  and  seriousness.? 
Their  poor  auld  pows  will  a'  turn  white  as  snaw,  man. 
They  would  skriegh  with  horror.  You  see,  the  lot  of 
tales  is  now  coming  to  a  kind  of  bearing.  They  are  being 
quite  rehandled ;  all  the  three  intercalary  narratives  have 

199 


>tT.  34 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1884    been  condemned  and  are  being  replaced — two  by  pictu- 
'  ^^  resque  and  highly  romantic  adventures;  one  by  a  comic 
tale  of  character ;  and  the  thing  as  it  goes  together  so  far, 
is,  I  do  think,  singularly  varied  and  vivid,  coming  near  to 
laughter  and  touching  tears. 
Will  Cassell  stand  it  ?     No. 
Et  de  deux. 

I  vote  for  the  syndicate,  and  to  give  Cassell  the  North 
Road  when  done.    Et  sic  suhscr.  R.  L.  S. 

My  health  is  better.  I  never  sleep,  to  be  sure;  Caw- 
dor hath  butchered  sleep ;  and  I  am  twinged  a  bit  by  aches 
and  rheumatism ;  but  I  get  my  five  to  seven  hours  of 
work ;  and  if  that  is  not  health,  it  is  the  nearest  I  am  like 
to  have. 


TO  Miss  Ferrier 

This  refers  to  the  death  of  Sir  Alexander  Grant,  the  distinguished 
Aristotelian  scholar  and  Principal  of  Edinburgh  University. 

[BONALLIE  TOWERS,  BOURNEMOUTH, 
December,  1884.] 
MY  DEAR  COGGIE,— We  are  very  much  distressed  to 
hear  of  this  which  has  befallen  your  family.  As  for  Sir 
Alexander,  I  can  but  speak  from  my  own  feelings :  he  sur- 
vived to  finish  his  book  and  to  conduct,  with  such  a  great 
success,  the  tercentenary.  Ah,  how  many  die  just  upon 
the  threshold !  Had  he  died  a  year  ago,  how  great  a  dis- 
appointment! But  all  this  is  nothing  to  the  survivors. 
Do  please,  as  soon  as  you  are  able,  let  us  know  how  it 
goes  and  how  it  is  likely  to  go  with  the  family ;  and  believe 

200 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

that  both  my  wife  and  I  are  most  anxious  to  have  good     1885 
news,  or  the  best  possible.    My  poor  Coggie,  I  know  very  ^  '  ^^ 
well  how  you  must  feel ;  you  are  passing  a  bad  time. 

Our  news  must  seem  very  impertinent.  We  have 
both  been  ill;  I,  pretty  bad,  my  wife,  pretty  well  down; 
but  I,  at  least,  am  better.  The  Bogue,  who  is  let  out 
every  night  for  half  an  hour's  yapping,  is  anchored  in  the 
moonlight  just  before  the  door,  and,  under  the  belief  that 
he  is  watchdog  at  a  lone  farm  beleaguered  by  moss-troopers, 
is  simply  raising  Cain. 

I  can  add  nothing  more,  but  just  that  we  wish  to  hear 
as  soon  as  you  have  nothing  else  to  do — not  to  hurry,  of 
course, — if  it  takes  three  months,  no  matter  —  but  bear 
us  in  mind.  R.  L.  S. 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

Stevenson  was  by  this  time  beginning  to  realise  that  work  at  play- 
writing  in  collaboration  with  Mr.  Henley  was  doing  much  more  to 
exhaust  his  strength  than  to  replenish  either  of  their  purses,  and  Mr. 
Henley,  who  had  built  hopes  of  fame  and  fortune  on  their  collaboration, 
was  very  unwilling  to  face  the  fact. 

[BOURNEMOUTH,  Marchy  188^.] 
MY  DEAR  LAD,  —  That  is  all  right,  and  a  good  job. 
About  coming  down,  you  cannot  get  into  us  for  a  while, 
as  you  may  imagine;  we  are  in  desperate  vortex,  and 
everybody  'most  dead.  I  have  been  two  days  in  bed  with 
liver  and  slight  bleeding. 

Do  you  think  you  are  right  to  send  Macaire  and  the 
Admiral  about  ?  Not  a  copy  have  I  sent,  nor  (speak- 
ing for  myself  personally)  do  I  want  sent.    The  reperusal 

201 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1885  of  the  Admiral,  by  the  way,  was  a  sore  blow;  eh,  God, 
*  ^^  man,  it  is  a  low,  black,  dirty,  blackguard,  ragged  piece : 
vomitable  in  many  parts — simply  vomitable.  Pew  is  in 
places  a  reproach  to  both  art  and  man.  But  of  all  that 
afterwards.  What  I  mean  is  that  I  believe  in  playing 
dark  with  second  and  third-rate  work.  Macaire  is  a  piece 
of  job-work,  hurriedly  bockled ;  might  have  been  worse, 
might  have  been  better ;  happy-go-lucky ;  act  it  or-let-it- 
rot  piece  of  business.  Not  a  thing,  I  think,  to  send  in 
presentations.  Do  not  let  us  goher  ourselves — and,  above 
all,  not  goher  dam  pot-boilers — and  p.b.'s  with  an  obvious 
flaw  and  hole  in  them,  such  as  is  our  unrealised  Bertrand 
in  this  one.     But  of  this  also,  on  a  meeting. 

I  am  not  yet  done  with  my  proofs,  1  am  sorry  to  say ; 
so  soon  as  1  am,  I  must  tackle  Kidnapped  seriously,  or  be 
content  to  have  no  bread,  which  you  would  scarcely 
recommend.  It  is  all  I  shall  be  able  to  do  to  wait  for  the 
Young  Folk  money,  on  which  I  '11  have  to  live  as  best  I 
can  till  the  book  comes  in. 

Plays  at  that  rate  I  do  not  think  1  can  possibly  look  at 
before  July ;  so  let  that  be  a  guide  to  you  in  your  views. 
July,  or  August,  or  September,  or  thereabouts:  these 
must  be  our  times,  whichever  we  attack.  I  think  you 
had  better  suspend  a  visit  till  we  can  take  you  in  and  till 
I  can  speak.  It  seems  a  considerable  waste  of  money; 
above  all,  as  just  now  I  could  not  even  offer  you  meals 
with  my  woman  in  such  a  state  of  overwork.  My  father 
and  mother  have  had  to  go  to  lodgings. — Post. 

R.  L.  S. 


ao9 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

i88s 
TO  W.   E.   HENLEY  ^^-  2^ 

[Bournemouth,  March,  i88^.] 
DEAR  LAD, — Much  better,  but  rather  unequal  to  do  what 
1  ought,  a  common  complaint.     The  change  of  weather 
much  helped  me,  not  too  soon. 

I  have  thought  as  well  as  I  could  of  what  you  said; 
and  I  come  unhesitatingly  to  the  opinion  that  the  stage  is 
only  a  lottery,  must  not  be  regarded  as  a  trade,  and  must 
never  be  preferred  to  drudgery.  If  money  comes  from  any 
play,  let  us  regard  it  as  a  legacy,  but  never  count  upon 
it  in  our  income  for  the  year.  In  other  words,  I  must  go 
on  and  drudge  at  Kidnapped^  which  I  hate,  and  am  unfit 
to  do ;  and  you  will  have  to  get  some  journalism  somehow. 
These  are  my  cold  and  blighting  sentiments.  It  is  bad 
enough  to  have  to  live  by  an  art — but  to  think  to  live  by 
an  art  combined  with  commercial  speculation — that  way 
madness  lies. 

Time  is  our  only  friend.  The  Admiral y  pulled  simply 
in  pieces  and  about  half  deleted,  will  act  some  day:  such 
is  my  opinion.     I  can  no  more. — Yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 


TO  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joseph  Pennell 

Acknowledging  the  dedication  of  an  illustrated  Canterbury  Pil- 
grimage. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  y««^,  i88^,] 
DEAR  SIR  and  MADAM,— This  horrible  delay  must  be 
forgiven  me.     It  was  not  caused  by  any  want  of  grati- 
tude; but  by  the  desire  to  acknowledge  the  dedication 

?o3 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

i88s     more  suitably  (and  to  display  my  wit)  in  a  copy  of  verses. 
^T-  34  y^Qii^  now  I  give  that  up,  and  tell  you  in  plain  prose, 
that  you  have  given  me  much  pleasure  by  the  dedication 
of  your  graceful  book. 

As  I  was  writing  the  above,  I  received  a  visit  from  Lady 
Shelley,  who  mentioned  to  me  that  she  was  reading  Mrs. 
Pennell's  Mary  IVollstonecraft  with  pleasure.  It  is  odd 
how  streams  cross.  Mr.  PennelFs  work,  I  have,  of  course, 
long  known  and  admired :  and  I  believe  there  was  once 
some  talk,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Gilder,  that  we  should  work 
together ;  but  the  scheme  fell  through  from  my  rapacity ; 
and  since  then  has  been  finally  rendered  impossible  (or  so 
I  fear)  by  my  health. 

I  should  say  that  when  I  received  the  Pilgrimagey  I  was 
in  a  state  (not  at  all  common  with  me)  of  depression; 
and  the  pleasant  testimony  that  my  work  had  not  all  been 
in  vain  did  much  to  set  me  up  again.  You  will  therefore 
understand,  late  as  is  the  hour,  with  what  sincerity  I  am 
able  to  sign  myself — Gratefully  yours, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

MR.  AND  MRS.  PENNELL,  —  I  see  I  should  explain  that 
this  is  all  in  my  own  hand,  I  have  not  fobbed  you  off  with 
an  amanuensis;  but  as  I  have  two  handwritings  (both 
equally  bad  in  these  days)  I  might  lead  you  to  think  so. 

R.  L.  S. 


204 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

Evidently  written  about  the  loth  of  June,  after  his  return  from  a  visit 
to  London  and  Cambridge,  and  after  the  decision  of  Mr.  Gladstone  to 
dissolve  Pariiament  on  the  defeat  of  the  Home  Rule  Bill  (June  8).  As 
to  the  Travelling  Companion,  see  above,  p.  183. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  June,  i88^.] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  —  I  am  in  bed  again — bloodie  jackery 
and  be  damned  to  it.  Lloyd  is  better,  I  think ;  and  money 
matters  better;  only  my  rascal  carcase,  and  the  muddy 
and  oily  lees  of  what  was  once  my  immortal  soul,  are  in  a 
poor  and  pitiful  condition. 

Litany 


Damn  the  political 

situation 

>> 

you 

7i 

me 
and 

>» 

Gladstone. 

I  am  a  kind  of  dam  home  ruler,  worse  luck  to  it.  I 
would  support  almost  anything  but  that  bill.  How  am  I 
to  vote }     Great  Caesar's  Ghost !  —  Ever  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 

O !  the  Travelling  Companion  won't  do ;  I  am  back  on 
it  entirely :  it  is  a  foul,  gross,  bitter,  ugly  daub,  with  lots 
of  stuff  in  "it,  and  no  urbanity  and  no  glee  and  no  true 
tragedy — to  the  crows  with  it,  a  carrion  tale!  I  will  do 
no  more  carrion,  I  have  done  too  much  in  this  carrion 
epoch;  I  will  now  be  clean;  and  by  clean,  I  don't  mean 

205 


188s 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1885    any  folly  about  purity,  but  such  things  as  a  healthy  man 
^^'  ^^  shall  find  fit  to  see  and  speak  about  without  a  pang  of 
nausea.  — I  am,  yours,  A  REPENTANT  DANKIST. 

The  lakeists,  the  drainists,  the  brookists,  and  the  river- 
ites ;  let  me  be  a  brookist,  faute  de  mieux, 

I  did  enjoy  myself  in  town,  and  was  a  thousandfold  the 
better  of  it. 


To  C.  Howard  Carrington 

In  answer  to  an  inquiry  from  a  correspondent  not  personally  known 
to  him,  who  had  by  some  means  heard  of  the  Great  North  Road 
project. 

Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  June  gth  [188^], 
DEAR  SIR, — The  Great  North  Road  is  still  unfinished; 
it  is  scarce  1  should  say  beyond  Highgate :  but  it  will  be 
finished  some  day,  bar  the  big  accident.  It  will  not  how- 
ever gratify  your  taste ;  the  highwayman  is  not  grasped : 
what  you  would  have  liked  (and  I,  believe  me)  would  have 
been  Jerry  Ahershaw:  but  Jerry  was  not  written  at  the 
fit  moment;  I  have  outgrown  the  taste — and  his  romantic 
horse-shoes  clatter  faintlier  down  the  incline  towards 
Lethe. — Truly  yours, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  Mrs.  de  Mattos 

Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  Summer,  188^, 
MY  DEAR  KATHARINE,  —  'T  is  the  most  complete  blague 
and  folly  to  write  to  you;  you  never  answer  and,  even 
when  you  do,  your  letters  crackle  under  the  teeth  like 

206 


Hey-ey-ey !     Sold  again.     Hey-ey-ey  I 
Postscript:  sold  again. 


^T.  34 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

ashes;  containing  nothing  as  they  do  but  unseasonable  1885 
japes  and  a  great  cloudy  vagueness  as  of  the  realm  of 
chaos.  In  this  I  know  well  they  are  like  mine ;  and  it  be- 
comes me  well  to  write  such — but  not  you — for  reasons 
too  obvious  to  mention.  We  have  both  been  sick;  but 
to-day  I  am  up,  though  with  an  aching  back.  But  I  hope 
all  will  be  better.  Of  your  views,  state,  finances,  etc. 
etc.,  I  know  nothing.  We  were  mighty  near  the  end  of 
all  things  financially,  when  a  strange  shape  of  a  hand  giv- 
ing appeared  in  Heaven  or  from  Hell,  and  set  us  up  again 
for  the  moment;  yet  still  we  totter  on  a  whoreson  brink. 
I  beg  pardon.  I  forgot  I  was  writing  to  a  lady;  but  the 
word  shall  stay :  it  is  the  only  word ;  I  would  say  it  to  the 

Q n  of  E d. 

How  do  you  like  letters  of  this  kind  ?  It  is  your  kind. 
They  mean  nothing ;  they  are  blankly  insignificant ;  and 
impudently  put  one  in  the  wrong.  One  has  learnt  noth- 
ing; and  forsooth  one  must  reply. — Yours,  the  Inexpres- 
sive Correspondent,  ,  R.  L.  S. 


207 


VlII 

LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

Continued 
(January,  i886-July,  1887) 


vin 

LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

Continued 
(January,  i886-July,  1887) 

TO  Charles  J.  Guthrie  1886 

iCT.  35 

"The  lad"  is  Lloyd  Osbourne,  at  this  time  a  student  at  Edinburgh 
University. 

Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  Jan.  18th,  [886, 

MY  DEAR  GUTHRIE,  — I  hear  the  lad  has  got  into  the 
Spec,  and  I  write  to  thank  you  very  warmly  for  the  part 
you  have  played.  I  only  wish  we  were  both  going  there 
together  to-morrow  night,  and  you  would  be  in  the  secre- 
tary's place  (that  so  well  became  you,  sir)  and  I  were  to 
open  a  debate  or  harry  you  on  **  Private  Business,*'  and 
Omond  perhaps  to  read  us  a  few  glowing  pages  on — the 
siege  of  Saragossa,  was  it  ?  or  the  Battle  of  Saratoga  ?  my 
memory  fails  me,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  a  certain  white 
charger  that  careered  over  the  fields  of  incoherent  fight 
with  a  prodigious  consequence  of  laughter :  have  you  ?  I 
wonder,  has  Omond  ? 

Well,  well,  perierunt,  but,  I  hope,  non  imputantur.  We 
have  had  good  fun. 

Again  thanking  you  sincerely,  I  remain,  my  dear  Guth- 
rie, your  old  comrade, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1886 

^^'  ^^  To  Edmund  Gosse 

Concerning  the  payment  which  Mr.  Gosse  had  procured  him  from  an 
American  magazine  for  the  set  of  verses  addressed  to  Mr.  Low  (see 
Letters,  VoL  II,  p.  12). 

[SKERRYVORE,  BOURNEMOUTH,  Feb.  77,  1886.] 
DEAR  GOSSE,  —  Non,  c'est  honteux!  for  a  set  of  sham- 
bling lines  that  don't  know  whether  they  *re  trochees  or 
what  they  are,  that  you  or  any  of  the  crafty  ones  would 
blush  all  over  if  you  had  so  much  as  thought  upon,  all  by 
yourselves,  in  the  water-closet.  But  God  knows,  I  am 
glad  enough  of  five  pounds ;  and  this  is  almost  as  honest 
a  way  to  get  it  as  plain  theft,  so  what  should  I  care  ?  — 
Ever  yours,  R.  L.  S. 


To  F.  W.  H.  MYERS 

In  reply  to  a  paper  of  criticisms  on  Jekyll  and  Hyde. 

SKERRYVORE,  BOURNEMOUTH,  March  ist,  1886. 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  know  not  how  to  thank  you:  this  is 
as  handsome  as  it  is  clever.  With  almost  every  word  I 
agree — much  of  it  I  even  knew  before — much  of  it,  I  must 
confess,  would  never  have  been,  if  1  had  been  able  to  do 
what  I  like,  and  lay  the  thing  by  for  the  matter  of  a  year. 
But  the  wheels  of  Byles  the  Butcher  drive  exceeding 
swiftly,  Sindjekyll  was  conceived,  written,  re-written,  re- 
rewritten,  and  printed  inside  ten  weeks.  Nothing  but  this 
white-hot  haste  would  explain  the  gross  error  of  Hyde's 
speech  at  Lanyon's.  Your  point  about  the  specialised 
fiend  is  more  subtle,  but  not  less  just :  I  had  not  seen  it. — 
About  the  picture,  I  rather  meant  that  Hyde  had  brought 

212 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

it  himself;  and  Utterson's  hypothesis  of  the  gift  (p.  42)     1886 
an  error.  —  The  tidiness  of  the  room,  I  thought,  but  I  dare  ^^'  ^^ 
say  my  psychology  is  here  too  ingenious  to  be  sound,  was 
due  to  the  dread  weariness  and  horror  of  the  imprison- 
ment.    Something  has  to  be  done:  he  would  tidy  the 
room.     But  1  dare  say  it  is  false. 

I  shall  keep  your  paper ;  and  if  ever  my  works  come  to 
be  collected,  I  will  put  my  back  into  these  suggestions. 
In  the  meanwhile,  I  do  truly  lack  words  in  which  to  ex- 
press my  sense  of  gratitude  for  the  trouble  you  have  taken. 
The  receipt  of  such  a  paper  is  more  than  a  reward  for  my 
labours.  I  have  read  it  with  pleasure,  and  as  I  say,  I 
hope  to  use  it  with  profit.  — Believe  me,  your  most  obliged, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

Written  just  before  a  visit  to  London  ;  not,  this  time,  as  my  guest  at 
the  British  Museum,  but  to  stay  with  his  father  at  an  hotel  in  Fitzroy 
Square. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  March,  1886.] 

MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  — I  have  been  reading  the  Vth  and 
Vlth  Aeneid — the  latter  for  the  first  time — and  am  over- 
powered. That  is  one  of  the  most  astonishing  pieces  of 
literature,  or  rather  it  contains  the  best,  I  ever  met  with. 
We  are  all  damned  small  fry,  and  Virgil  is  one  of  the  tops 
of  human  achievement;  I  never  appreciated  this;  you 
should  have  a  certain  age  to  feel  this;  it  is  no  book  for 
boys,  who  grind  under  the  lack  of  enterprise  and  dash, 
and  pass  ignorantly  over  miracles  of  performances  that 
leave  an  old  hoary-headed  practitioner  like  me  stricken 
down  with  admiration.     Even  as  a  boy,  the  Sibyl  would 

213 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1886  have  bust  me;  but  I  never  read  the  Vlth  till  I  began  it  two 
^^'  ^^  days  ago;  it  is  all  fresh  and  wonderful ;  do  you  envy  me? 
If  only  I  knew  any  Latin !  if  you  had  a  decent  edition  with 
notes — many  notes — I  should  like  well  to  have  it;  mine 
is  a  damned  Didot  with  not  the  ghost  of  a  note,  type  that 
puts  my  eyes  out,  and  (I  suspect)  no  very  splendid  text  — 
but  there,  the  carnal  feelings  of  the  man  who  can't  con- 
strue are  probably  parents  to  the  suspicion. 

My  dear  fellow,  I  would  tenfold  rather  come  to  the 
Monument;  but  my  father  is  an  old  man,  and  if  I  go  to 
town,  it  shall  be  (this  time)  for  his  pleasure.  He  has 
many  marks  of  age,  some  of  childhood;  I  wish  this 
knighthood  business  could  come  off,  though  even  the 
talk  of  it  has  been  already  something,  but  the  change  (to 
my  eyes)  is  thoroughly  begun;  and  a  very  beautiful, 
simple,  honourable,  high-spirited  and  childlike  (and  child- 
ish) man  is  now  in  process  of  deserting  us  piecemeal.  Si 
quis  piorum — God  knows,  not  that  he  was  pious,  but  he 
did  his  hand's  darg  or  tried  to  do  it;  and  if  not,  —  well, 
it  is  a  melancholy  business. —  Yours  ever,  R.  L.  S. 


TO  Sidney  Colvin 

Written  after  his  return  from  an  excursion  to  Matlock  with  his 
father,  following  on  their  visit  to  London.  "The  verses"  means 
Underwoods.  The  suppressed  poem  is  that  headed  "  To ,"  after- 
wards printed  in  Songs  of  Travel. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  April,  1886,] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN, —  This  is  to  announce  to  you,  what  I 
believe  should  have  been  done  sooner,  that  we  are  at 
Skerry vore.    We  were  both  tired,  and  I  was  fighting  my 
second  cold,  so  we  came  straight  through  by  the  west. 

214 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

We  have  a  butler !    He  doesn't  buttle,  but  the  point  of    1886 
the  thing  is  the  style.     When  Fanny  gardens,  he  stands 
over  her  and  looks  genteel.     He  opens  the  door,  and  1  am 
told  waits  at  table.    Well,  what 's  the  odds;  1  shall  have 
it  on  my  tomb—'* He  ran  a  butler.'* 

He  may  have  been  this  and  that, 

A  drunkard  or  a  guttler ; 
He  may  have  been  bald  and  fat — 

At  least  he  kept  a  butler. 

He  may  have  sprung  from  ill  or  well. 

From  Emperor  or  sutler ; 
He  may  be  burning  now  in  Hell — 

On  earth  he  kept  a  butler. 

I  want  to  tell  you  also  that  I  have  suppressed  your 
poem.  I  shall  send  it  you  for  yourself,  and  I  hope  you 
will  agree  with  me  that  it  was  not  good  enough  in  point 
of  view  of  merit,  and  a  little  too  intimate  as  between  you 
and  me.  I  would  not  say  less  of  you,  my  friend,  but  I 
scarce  care  to  say  so  much  in  public  while  we  live.  A 
man  may  stand  on  his  own  head ;  it  is  not  fair  to  set  his 
friend  on  a  pedestal. 

The  verses  are  now  at  press;  I  have  written  a  damn 
fme  ballad. — And  I  am,  dear  S.  C,  ever  yours, 

TOMNODDY. 


215 


i886 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  Alison  Cunningham 

Accompanying  a  presentation  copy  oi  Kidnapped.    Alison  Cunning- 
ham's maiden  name  had  been  Hastie. 

[BOURNEMOUTH,  y«/v,  1886.] 
MY  DEAR  GUMMY,  —  Herewith  goes  my  new  book,  in 
which  you  will  find  some  places  that  you  know:  I  hope 
you  will  like  it :  I  do.  The  name  of  the  girl  at  Limekilns 
(as  will  appear  if  the  sequel  is  ever  written)  was  Hastie, 
and  I  conceive  she  was  an  ancestor  of  yours:  as  David 
was  no  doubt  some  kind  of  relative  of  mine. 

I  have  no  time  for  more,  but  send  my  love,  and  remem- 
brances to  your  brother.  —  Ever  your  affectionate 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Alison  Cunningham 

Hecky  was  a  dog  belonging  to  his  correspondent's  brother.  Steven- 
son was  always  interested  by  his  own  retentiveness  of  memory  for 
childish  things,  and  here  asks  Cummy  some  questions  to  test  the  qual- 
ity of  hers. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  Julyy  1886.] 

MY  DEAR  CUMMY,  —  1  was  sorry  to  get  so  poor  account 
of  you  and  Hecky.  Fanny  thinks  perhaps  it  might  be 
Hecky's  teeth.  Sir  Walter  Simpson  has  a  very  clever  vet. 
I  have  forgotten  his  name ;  but  if  you  like,  I  send  a  card 
and  you  or  James  might  ask  the  address. 

Now  to  what  is  more  important.  Do  you  remember 
any  of  the  following  names:  Lady  Boothroyd,  Barny 
Gee,  Andrew  Silex,  the  Steward,  Car  us  Ream,  Peter 
Mangles,  Richard  Markham,  Fiddler  Dick  ?     Please  let  me 

216 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

know  and  I  will  tell  you  how  I  come  to  ask.     I  warn  you,     1886 
you  will  have  to  cast  back  your  eyes  a  good  long  way,       '  ^^ 
close  upon  thirty  years,   before  you  strike  the  trail  on 
which  I  wish  to  lead  you. 

When  I  have  had  an  answer  I  will  write  you  a  decent 
letter.  To-day,  though  nothing  much  is  wrong  with  me, 
I  am  out  of  sorts  and  most  disinclined  for  writing. — 
Yours  most  affectionately, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  Alison  Cunningham 

Anticipating  the  gift  of  a  cupboard  and  answering  the  questions  set 
in  his  last.  The  date  of  the  readings  had  been  his  seventh  year.  Mr. 
Galpin  was  a  partner  in  Cassell,  Petter,  Galpin,  &  Co. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth, 
July  or  August,  1886.] 

MY  DEAR  GUMMY,— The  cupboard  has  not  yet  turned 
up,  and  I  was  hanging  on  to  be  able  to  say  it  had.  How- 
ever, that  is  only  a  trick  to  escape  another  letter,  and  I 
should  despise  myself  if  I  kept  it  up.  It  was  truly  kind 
of  you,  dear  Cummy,  to  send  it  to  us :  and  I  will  let  you 
know  where  we  set  it  and  how  it  looks. 

Carus  Ream  and  Andrew  Silex  and  the  others  were  from 
a  story  you  read  me  in  Cassell' s  Family  Paper y  and  which 
I  have  been  reading  again  and  found  by  no  means  a  bad 
story.  Mr.  Galpin  lent  me  all  the  old  volumes,  and  I 
mean  to  re-read  Custaloga  also,  but  have  not  yet.  It 
was  strangely  like  old  times  to  read  the  other ;  don't  you 
remember  the  poisoning  with  mushrooms.?  That  was 
Andrew  Silex. — Yours  most  affectionately,      R.  L.  S. 

217 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1886 

^^'  ^^  To  Alison  Cuntmingham 

Skerryvore,  BOURNEMOUTH,  September,  1886. 

MY  DEAR  GUMMY,  — I  am  home  from  a  long  holiday, 
vastly  better  in  health.  My  wife  not  home  yet,  as  she  is 
being  cured  in  some  rather  boisterous  fashion  by  some 
Swedish  doctors.  I  hope  it  may  do  her  good,  as  the 
process  seems  not  to  be  agreeable  in  itself. 

Your  cupboard  has  come,  and  it  is  most  beautiful :  it  is 
certainly  worth  a  lot  of  money,  and  is  just  what  we  have 
been  looking  for  in  all  the  shops  for  quite  a  while:  so 
your  present  falls  very  pat.  It  is  to  go  in  our  bedroom,  1 
think ;  but  perhaps  my  wife  will  think  it  too  much  of  a 
good  thing  to  be  put  so  much  out  of  the  way,  so  I  shall 
not  put  it  in  its  place  till  her  return.  I  am  so  well  that  I 
am  afraid  to  speak  of  it,  being  a  coward  as  to  boasting. 
1  take  walks  in  the  wood  daily,  and  have  got  back  to  my 
work  after  a  long  break.  The  story  I  wrote  you  about 
was  one  you  read  to  me  in  CasselVs  Family  Paper  long 
ago  when  it  came  out.  It  was  astonishing  how  clearly  I 
remembered  it  all,  pictures,  characters,  and  incidents, 
though  the  last  were  a  little  mixed  and  1  had  not  the  least 
the  hang  of  the  story.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  read  it 
again,  and  remember  old  days,  and  the  weekly  excursion 
to  Mrs.  Hoggs  after  that  precious  journal.  Dear  me,  lang 
syne  now!  God  bless  you,  dear  Cummy. — Your  afft. 
boy,  R.  L.  Stevenson. 


218 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

1886 
To  AUGUSTE  RODIN  >ct.  36 

Written  after  another  visit  to  me  in  London,  in  November,  which  had 
been  cut  short  by  fogs.     "  Le  Printemps  "  is  Rodin's  group  so  called. 

SKERRYVORE,   BOURNEMOUTH, 

November  or  December,  i886-8y. 

MON  CHER  AMI,  — II  y  a  bien  longtemps  d6jk  que  je 
vous  dois  des  lettres  par  dizaines ;  mais  bien  que  je  vais 
mieux,  je  ne  vais  toujours  que  doucement.  II  a  fallu  faire 
le  voyage  a  Bournemouth  comme  une  fuite  en  Egypte, 
par  crainte  des  brouillards  qui  me  tuaient ;  et  j'en  ressentais 
beaucoup  de  fatigue.  Mais  maintenant  cela  commence  k 
aller,  et  je  puis  vous  donner  de  mes  nouvelles. 

Le  Printemps  est  arrive,  mais  il  avait  le  bras  casse,  et 
nous  Tavons  laiss6,  lors  de  notre  fuite,  aux  soins  d'un 
mddecin-de-statues.  Je  I'attends  de  jour  en  jour;  et  ma 
maisonette  en  resplendira  bientot.  Je  regrette  beaucoup 
le  dedicace ;  peut-^tre,  quand  vous  viendrez  nous  voir,  ne 
serait-il  pas  trop  tard  de  I'ajouter }  Je  n*en  sais  rien,  je 
Tespere.  L*oeuvre  c'est  pour  tout  le  monde;  le  dddicace 
est  pour  moi.  L'oeuvre  est  un  cadeau,  trop  beau  meme; 
c'est  le  mot  d'amitie  qui  me  le  donne  pour  de  bon.  Je  suis 
si  bete  que  je  m'embrouille,  et  me  perds;  mais  vous  me 
comprendrez,  je  pense. 

Je  ne  puis  m6me  pas  m*exprimer  en  anglais;  comment 
voudriez  vous  que  je  le  pourrais  en  frangais  ?  Plus  heureux 
que  vous,  la  Nemesis  des  arts  ne  me  visite  pas  sous"  le 
masque  du  desenchantement ;  elle  me  suce  Tintelligence 
et  me  laisse  bayer  aux  corneilles,  sans  capacity  mais  sans 
regret;  sans  esperance,  c'est  vrai,  mais  aussi,  Dieu  merci, 
sans  desespoir.  Un  doux  etonnement  me  tient ;  je  ne 
m'habitue  pas  k  me  trouver  si  biiche,  mais  je  m'y  rdsigne; 

219 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1887     meme  si  celk  durait,  ce  ne  serait  pas  d^sagrdable — mais 
^^'  ^    comme  je  mourrais  certainement  de  faim,  ce  serait  tout  au 
moins  regrettable  pour  moi  et  ma  famille. 

Je  voudrais  pouvoir  vous  dcrire ;  mais  ce  n*est  pas  moi 
qui  tiens  la  plume — c'est  I'autre,  la  bete,  celui  qui  ne 
connait  pas  le  Franjais,  celui  qui  n'aime  pas  mes  amis 
comme  je  les  aime,  qui  ne  goiite  pas  aux  choses  de  Tart 
comme  j'y  goMe;  celui  que  je  renie,  mais  auquel  je  com- 
mande  toujours  assez  pour  le  faire  prendre  la  plume  en 
main  et  dcrire  des  tristes  bavardages.  Celui-lk,  mon  cher 
Rodin,  vous  ne  Taimez  pas ;  vous  ne  devez  jamais  le  con- 
naitre.  Votre  ami,  qui  dort  h,  present,  comme  un  ours,  au 
plus  profond  de  mon  etre,  se  rdveillera  sous  peu.  Alors, 
il  vous  ^crira  de  sa  propre  main.  Attendez  lui.  L'autre 
ne  compte  pas;  ce  ne*st  qu'un  secretaire  infid^le  et  triste, 
k  r^me  gelde,  k  la  tete  de  bois. 

Celui  qui  dort  est  toujours,  mon  cher  ami,  bien  k  vous; 
celui  qui  ^crit  est  charge  de  vous  en  faire  part  et  de  signer 
de  la  raison  sociale. 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson  et  Triple-Brute. 


To  Lady  Taylor 

Stevenson's  volume  of  tales  The  Merry  Men,  so  called  from  the  story 
which  heads  the  collection,  was  about  to  appear  with  a  dedication  to 
Lady  Taylor.  Professor  Dowden's  Shelley  had  lately  come  out,  and 
had  naturally  been  read  with  eager  interest  in  a  circle  where  Sir  Percy 
(the  poet's  son)  and  Lady  Shelley  were  intimate  friends  and  neighbours. 

Skerryvore,  Bournemouth 
[New  Year,  1887]. 
MY  DEAR  LADY  TAYLOR,— This  is  to  wish  you  all  the 
salutations  of  the  year,  with  some  regret  that  I  cannot 

aao 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

offer  them  in  person ;  yet  less  than  I  had  supposed.    For    1887 
hitherto  your  flight  to  London  seems  to  have  worked  well ;  ^^'  ^ 
and  time  flies  and  will  soon  bring  you  back  again.    Though 
time  is  ironical,  too;  and  it  would  be  like  his  irony  if  the 
same  tide  that  brought  you  back  carried  me  away.     That 
would  not  be,  at  least,  without  some  meeting. 

I  feel  very  sorry  to  think  the  book  to  which  I  have  put 
your  name  will  be  no  better,  and  I  can  make  it  no  better. 
The  tales  are  of  all  dates  and  places ;  they  are  like  the 
box,  the  goose,  and  the  cottage  of  the  ferryman ;  and 
must  go  floating  down  time  together  as  best  they  can. 
But  I  am  after  all  a  (superior)  penny-a-liner ;  I  must  do, 
in  the  Scotch  phrase,  as  it  will  do  with  me;  and  I  cannot 
always  choose  what  my  books  are  to  be,  only  seize  the 
chance  they  offer  to  link  my  name  to  a  friend's.  I  hope 
the  lot  of  them  (the  tales)  will  look  fairly  disciplined  when 
they  are  clapped  in  binding ;  but  I  fear  they  will  be  but 
an  awkward  squad.  I  have  a  mild  wish  that  you  at  least 
would  read  them  no  further  than  the  dedication. 

I  suppose  we  have  all  been  reading  Dowden.  It  seems 
to  me  a  really  first-rate  book,  full  of  justice,  and  humour 
without  which  there  can  be  no  justice;  and  of  fine  intelli- 
gence besides.  Here  and  there,  perhaps  a  trifle  precious, 
but  this  is  to  spy  flaws  in  a  fine  work.  I  was  weary  at 
my  resemblances  to  Shelley ;  I  seem  but  a  Shelley  with  less 
oil,  and  no  genius;  though  I  have  had  the  fortune  to  live 
longer  and  (partly)  to  grow  up.  He  was  growing  up. 
There  is  a  manlier  note  in  the  last  days ;  in  spite  of  such 
really  sickening  aberrations  as  the  Emillia  Viviani  business. 
I  try  to  take  a  humorously-genial  view  of  life ;  but  Emillia 
Viviani,  if  I  have  her  detested  name  aright,^  is  too  much 

» As  in  fact  he  had,  all  except  the  double  1. 
221 


MT.  36 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

.^f^L  ^^^  "^y  philosophy.  I  cannot  smile  when  I  see  all  these 
grown  folk  waltzing  and  piping  the  eye  about  an  insubor- 
dinate and  perfectly  abominable  schoolgirl,  as  silly  and 
patently  as  false  as  Blanche  Amory.^  I  really  think  it  is 
one  of  those  episodes  that  make  the  angels  weep. 

With  all  kind  regards  and  affectionate  good  wishes  to 
and  for  you  and  yours,  believe  me,  your  affectionate  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  Lady  Taylor 

The  reference  in  the  last  paragraph  to  a  "  vision  "  cannot  be  explained, 
his  correspondent's  daughters  retaining  no  memory  on  the  subject. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  January,  1887.] 
MY  DEAR  LADY  TAYLOR,  — I  don't  know  but  what  I 
agree  fairly  well  with  all  you  say,  only  I  like  The  Merry 
Men,  as  a  fantasia  or  vision  of  the  sea,  better  than  you  do. 
The  trouble  with  Olalla  is  that  it  somehow  sounds  false ; 
and  I  think  it  must  be  this  that  gives  you  the  feeling  of 
irreverence.  Of  Thr awn  Janet,  which  I  like  very  much 
myself,  you  say  nothing,  thus  uttering  volumes;  but  it  is 
plain  that  people  cannot  always  agree.  I  do  not  think  it 
is  a  wholesome  part  of  me  that  broods  on  the  evil  in  the 
world  and  man ;  but  1  do  not  think  that  I  get  harm]  from 
it;  possibly  my  readers  may,  which  is  more  serious;  but 
at  any  account,  I  do  not  purpose  to  write  more  in  this 
vein.  But  the  odd  problem  is :  what  makes  a  story  true  ? 
Marhheim  is  true;  Olalla  false;  and  I  don't  know  why, 
nor  did  I  feel  it  while  1  worked  at  them ;  indeed  I  had  more 
inspiration  with  Olalla,  as  the  style  shows.  I  am  glad 
you  thought  that  young  Spanish  woman  well  dressed;  I 

'  In  Pendennis. 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

admire  the  style  of  it  myself,  more  than  is  perhaps  good     1887 
for  me;  it  is  so  solidly  written.    And  that  again  brings  ^^'  ^ 
back  (almost  with  the  voice  of  despair)  my  unanswerable : 
why  is  it  false  ? 

Here  is  a  great  deal  about  my  works.  I  am  in  bed 
again;  and  my  wife  but  so-so;  and  we  have  no  news 
recently  from  Lloyd:  and  the  cat  is  well;  and  we  see, 
or  I  see,  no  one;  so  that  other  matters  are  all  closed 
against  me. 

Your  vision  is  strange  indeed ;  but  I  see  not  how  to  use 
it;  I  fear  I  am  earthy  enough  myself  to  regard  it  as  a  case 
of  disease,  but  certainly  it  is  a  thrilling  case  to  hear  of.  — 
Ever  affectionately  yours, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 


To  HENRY  James 

This  letter  is  written  on  the  front  page  of  a  set  of  proofs  of  Memories 
and  Portraits.  The  "  silly  Xmas  story  "  is  The  Misadventures  of  John 
Nicholson  :  the  "  volume  of  verse  "  appeared  later  in  the  year  as  £/«- 
derwoods.  The  signature  refers  to  the  two  Scots  poets  of  whom,  "  in 
his  native  speech,"  he  considered  himself  the  follower. 

Skerryvore,  BOURNEMOUTH,  January,  i88y. 

All  the  salutations ! 

MY  DEAR  JAMES,  —  I  send  you  the  first  sheets  of  the  new 
volume,  all  that  has  yet  reached  me,  the  rest  shall  follow 
in  course.  I  am  really  a  very  fair  sort  of  a  fellow  all 
things  considered,  have  done  some  work;  a  silly  Xmas 
story  (with  some  larks  in  it)  which  won't  be  out  till  I 
don't  know  when.  I  am  also  considering  a  volume  of 
verse,  much  of  which  will  be  cast  in  my  native  speech, 

223 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1887    that  very  dark  oracular  medium :  I  suppose  this  is  a  folly, 
^^'  ^     but  what  then?     As  the  nurse  says  in  Marryat,  *Mt  was 
only  a  little  one." 

My  wife  is  peepy  and  dowie:  two  Scotch  expressions 
with  which  I  will  leave  you  to  wrestle  unaided,  as  a  prep- 
aration for  my  poetical  works.  She  is  a  woman  (as  you 
know)  not  without  art :  the  art  of  extracting  the  gloom  of 
the  eclipse  from  sunshine;  and  she  has  recently  laboured 
in  this  field  not  without  success  or  (as  we  used  to  say)  not 
without  a  blessing.  It  is  strange:  **  we  fell  out  my  wife 
and  I "  the  other  night;  she  tackled  me  savagely  for  being 
a  canary-bird ;  I  replied  (bleatingly)  protesting  that  there 
was  no  use  in  turning  life  into  King  Lear ;  presently  it  was 
discovered  that  there  were  two  dead  combatants  upon  the 
field,  each  slain  by  an  arrow  of  the  truth,  and  we  tenderly 
carried  off  each  other's  corpses.  Here  is  a  little  comedy 
for  Henry  James  to  write !  the  beauty  was  each  thought 
the  other  quite  unscathed  at  first.  But  we  had  dealt 
shrewd  stabs. 

You  say  nothing  of  yourself,  which  I  shall  take  to  be 
good  news.  Archer's  note  has  gone.  He  is,  in  truth,  a 
very  clever  fellow  that  Archer,  and  I  believe  a  good  one. 
It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  a  man  who  can  use  a  pen ;  he 
can :  really  says  what  he  means,  and  says  it  with  a  man- 
ner ;  comes  into  print  like  one  at  his  ease,  not  shame-faced 
and  wrong-foot-foremost  like'  the  bulk  of  us.  Well,  here 
is  luck,  and  here  are  the  kindest  recollections  from  the 
canary-bird  and  from  King  Lear,  from  the  Tragic  Woman 
and  the  Flimsy  Man. 

ROBERT  Ramsay  Fergusson  Stevenson. 


224 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 

TO  AUGUSTE  RODIN  1887 

JET.  36 

Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  February y  i88y, 
MON  CHER  AMI,  —  Je  vous  neglige,  et  cependant  ce  n'est 
veritablement  pas  de  ma  faute.  J'ai  fait  encore  une  ma- 
ladie;  et  je  puis  dire  que  je  Tai  royalement  bien  faite. 
Que  cela  vous  aide  a  me  pardonner.  Certes  je  ne  vous 
oublie  pas;  et  je  puis  dire  que  je  ne  vous  oublierai  jamais. 
Si  je  n'ecris  pas,  dttes  que  je  suis  malade  —  c'est  trop 
souvent  vrai,  dites  que  je  suis  las  d'dcrivailler — ce  sera 
toujours  vrai ;  mais  ne  dites  pas,  et  ne  pensez  pas,  que  je 
deviens  indifferent.  J'ai  devant  moi  votre  portrait  tire 
d'un  journal  anglais  (et  encadre  a  mes  frais),  et  je  le  re- 
garde  avec  amitid,  je  le  regarde  meme  avec  une  certaine 
complaisance — dirai-je,  de  faux  aloi?  comme  un  certificat 
de  jeunesse.  Je  me  croyais  trop  vieux — au  moins  trop 
quarante-ans — pour  faire  de  nouveaux  amis;  et  quand  je 
regarde  votre  portrait,  et  quand  je  pense  au  plaisir  de  vous 
revoir,  je  sens  que  je  m'etais  tromp^.  Ecrivez-moi  done  un 
petit  mot,  pour  me  dire  que  vous  ne  gardez  pas  rancune 
de  mon  silence,  et  que  vous  comptez  bientot  venir  en 
Angleterre.  Si  vous  tardez  beaucoup,  ce  sera  moi  qui  irai 
vous  relancer.  —  Bien  a  vous,  mon  cher  ami, 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 

To  Sidney  Colvin 

I  had  lately  sent  him  two  books,  the  fifth  volume  of  Huxley's  Col- 
lected Essays  and  Cotter  Morison's  Service  of  Man  :  the  latter  a  work 
of  Positivist  tendency,  on  which  its  genial  and  accomplished  author  had 
long  built  strong  hopes,  but  which  unfortunately  he  only  began  to 
write  after  a  rapid  decline  of  health  and  power  had  set  in. 

[Skerryvore,  Bournemouth,  Spring,  i88y.] 
MY  dear  COLVIN,  — I  read  Huxley,  and  a  lot  of  it  with 
great  interest.    Eh,  what  a  gulf  between  a  man  with  a 

22  <> 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1887  mind  like  Huxley  and  a  man  like  Cotter  Morison.  Truly 
^^'  ^  't  is  the  book  of  a  boy ;  before  I  was  twenty  I  was  done 
with  all  these  considerations.  Nor  is  there  one  happy 
phrase,  except  **  the  devastating  flood  of  children.*'  Why 
should  he  din  our  ears  with  languid  repetitions  of  the  very 
first  ideas  and  facts  that  a  bright  lad  gets  hold  of;  and 
how  can  a  man  be  so  destitute  of  historical  perspective,  so 
full  of  cheap  outworn  generalisations — feudal  ages,  time 
of  suffering — pas  tant  qu' aujourdhui,  M.  Cotter !  Christi- 
anity— which?  what?  how?  You  must  not  attack  all 
forms,  from  Calvin  to  St.  Thomas,  from  St.  Thomas  to 
(One  who  should  surely  be  considered)  Jesus  Christ,  with 
the  same  missiles:  they  do  not  all  tell  against  all.  But 
there  it  is,  as  we  said ;  a  man  joins  a  sect,  and  becomes 
one-eyed.  He  affects  a  horror  of  vices  which  are  just  the 
thing  to  stop  his  ** devastating  flood  of  babies,"  and  just 
the  thing  above  all  to  keep  the  vicious  from  procreating. 
Where,  then,  is  the  ground  of  this  horror  in  any  intelligent 
Servant  of  Humanity?  O,  beware  of  creeds  and  anti- 
creeds,  sects  and  anti-sects.  There  is  but  one  truth,  out- 
side science,  the  truth  that  comes  of  an  earnest,  smiling 
survey  of  mankind  **from  China  to  Peru,"  or  further,  and 
from  to-day  to  the  days  of  Probably  Arboreal;  and  the 
truth  (however  true  it  is)  that  robs  you  of  sympathy  with 
any  form  of  thought  or  trait  of  man,  is  false  for  you,  and 
heretical,  and  heretico-plastic.  Hear  Morison  struggling 
with  his  chains ;  hear  me,  hear  all  of  us,  when  we  suffer 
our  creeds  or  anti-creeds  to  degenerate  towards  the  whine, 
and  begin  to  hate  our  neighbours,  or  our  ancestors,  like 
ourselves.  And  yet  in  Morison,  too,  as  in  St.  Thomas,  as 
in  Rutherford,  ay,  or  in  Peden,  truth  struggles,  or  it  would 
not  so  deform  them.  The  man  has  not  a  devil;  it  is  an 
angel  that  tears  and  blinds  him.    But  Morison's  is  an  old, 

336 


LIFE  AT  BOURNEMOUTH 


almost  a  venerable  seraph,  with  whom  I  dealt  before  I  was    1887 
twenty,  and  had  done  before  I  was  twenty-five.  '^^'  ^ 

Behold  how  the  voices  of  dead  preachers  speak  hollowly 
(and  lengthily)  within  me! — Yours  ever — and  rather  bet- 
ter— not  much,  R.  L.  S. 


IX 

THE  UNITED  STATES  AGAIN 

WINTER  IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS 

(OCTOBER,  1887-MAY,  1888) 


IX 

THE  UNITED  STATES  AGAIN 

WINTER  IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS 
(OCTOBER,  1887-MAY,  1888) 

TO  Sir  Walter  Simpson  iss^ 

It  was  supposed  that  Stevenson's  letters  to  this  friend,  like  those  to 
Professor  Fleeming  Jenkin,  had  been  destroyed  or  disappeared  altogether. 
But  here  is  one  which  turns  out  to  have  been  preserved  by  a  friend  to 
whom  Sir  Walter  made  a  present  of  it. 

[Saranac  Lake,  October,  iSSy.l 

MY  DEAR  SIMPSON, 
the  address  is 
c/o  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
743  Broadway,  N.  Y., 
where  I  wish  you  would  write  and  tell  us  you  are  better. 
But  the  place  of  our  abode  is  Saranac  Lake  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks;  it  is  a  mighty  good  place  too,  and  I  mean  it  shall 
do  me  good.     Indeed  the  dreadful  depression  and  collapse 
of  last  summer  has  quite  passed  away ;  it  was  a  thorough 
change  I  wanted ;  I  wonder  perhaps  if  it  wouldn't  pick  you 
up — if  you  are  not  picked  up  already;  you  have  been  a 
long  time  in  Great  Britain ;  and  that  is  a  slow  poison,  very 
slow  for  the  strong,  but  certain  for  all.     Old  Dr.  Chepmell 
told  Lloyd :  any  one  can  stay  a  year  in  England  and  be 
the  better  for  it,  but  no  one  can  stay  there  steadily  and 
not  be  the  worse. 

231 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1887  I  have  had  a  very  curious  experience  here;  being  very 
^^'  ^  much  made  of,  and  called  upon,  and  all  that;  quite  the 
famous  party  in  fact :  it  is  not  so  nice  as  people  try  to 
make  out,  when  you  are  young,  and  don't  want  to  bother 
working.  Fame  is  nothing  to  a  yacht;  experto  crede. 
There  are  nice  bits  of  course ;  for  you  meet  very  pleasant 
and  interesting  people ;  but  the  thing  at  large  is  a  bore  and 
a  fraud ;  and  1  am  much  happier  up  here,  where  I  see  no 
one  and  live  my  own  life.  One  thing  is  they  do  not  stick 
for  money  to  the  Famed  One;  I  was  offered  ;^20oo  a  year 
for  a  weekly  article;  and  I  accepted  (and  now  enjoy) 
£720  a  year  for  a  monthly  one :  ^  (whatever  that  may 
be)  for  each  article,  as  long  or  as  short  as  I  please,  and  on 
any  mortal  subject.  I  am  sure  it  will  do  me  harm  to  do 
it ;  but  the  sum  was  irresistible.  See  calculations  on  verso 
of  last  page,  and  observe,  sir,  the  accuracy  of  my  methods. 
Hulloh,  I  must  get  up,  as  I  can't  lose  any  time.  Good- 
bye, remember  me  to  her  ladyship  and  salute  the  Kids. — 
Ever  your  friend,  R.  L.  S. 

12  1 10  v.  72  ',  Xf  and  this  results  in  the 
same  problem.     Well — tackle  it. 
12)720(60 
72 
Is  it  possible  ? 
;^6o!!?.? 
Let  us  cheque  it  by  trying  it  in  dollars,  ^^3500  per  an. 
12)3500(291.80 

24 
no 
108 
20 

239 


THE  UNITED  STATES  AGAIN 
Well:  $291.80  1887 


then  divide  by  $  for  a  rough  test 
5)291(58.4.4 
25  add  80  cents =40^.  =  3.  4^. 

~  3.4 


/ET.  36 


Well,  call  it 

;^58.  10. 


and  be  done  with  it! 


TO  Charles  Fairchild 

POST  Office,  Saranac  Lake, 
Adirondacks,  N.  Y.  [October,  i88y\. 
MY  DEAR  fairchild,— I  do  not  live  in  the  Post  Office; 
that  is  only  my  address;  I  live  at  ** Baker's,"  a  house 
upon  a  hill,  and  very  jolly  in  every  way.  1  believe  this 
is  going  to  do:  we  have  a  kind  of  a  garret  of  a  spare 
room,  where  hardy  visitors  can  sleep,  and  our  table  (if 
homely)  is  not  bad. 

And  here,  appropriately  enough,  comes  in  the  begging 
part.  We  cannot  get  any  fruit  here :  can  you  manage  to 
send  me  some  grapes  ?  I  told  you  I  would  trouble  you, 
and  1  will  say  that  I  do  so  with  pleasure,  which  means  a 
great  deal  from  yours  very  sincerely, 

ROBERT  Louis  Stevenson. 

PS. — Remember  us  to  all  yours:  my  mother  and  my 
wife  are  away  skylarking ;  my  mother  to  Niagara,  my  wife 
to  Indianapolis ;  and  I  live  here  to-day  alone  with  Lloyd, 

233 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1887    Valentine,  some  cold  meat,  and  four  salmon  trout,  one  of 
^^*  ^    which  is  being  grilled  at  this  moment  of  writing ;  so  that, 
after  the  immortal  pattern  of  the  Indian  boys,  my  house- 
hold will  soon  only  reckon  three.     As  usual  with  me,  the 
news  comes  in  a  P.S.,  and  is  mostly  folly.        R.  L.  S. 

P.P,S,  —  My  cold  is  so  much  better  that  I  took  another 
yesterday.  But  the  new  one  is  a  puny  child  ;  I  fear  him 
not;  and  yet  I  fear  to  boast.  If  the  postscript  business 
goes  on,  this  establishment  will  run  out  of  P's ;  but  I  hope 
it  wasn't  you  that  made  this  paper — just  for  a  last  word 
— I  could  not  compliment  you  upon  that.  And  Lord!  if 
you  could  see  the  ink — not  what  I  am  using — but  the 
local  vintage !  They  don't  write  much  here ;  I  bet  what 
you  please.  R.  L.  S. 


To  W.  E.  Henley 

**  Gleeson  White  "  in  this  letter  means  the  collection  of  Ballades, 
Rondeaus,  &c.y  edited  by  that  gentleman  and  dedicated  to  R.  L.  S. 
(Walter  Scott,  1887). 

[Saranac  Lake,  October,  1887.] 
MY  DEAR  LAD,  —  I  hear  some  vague  reports  of  a  success* 
at  Montreal. 

My  news  is  not  much,  my  mother  is  away  to  Niagara 
and  Fanny  to  Indiana;  the  Port  Admiral  and  I  and  Valen- 
tine keep  house  together  in  our  verandahed  cottage  near  a 
wood.  I  am  writing,  and  have  got  into  the  vein.  When 
1  got  to  N.  Y.  a  paper  offered  me  i^2000  a  year  to  do  crit- 
ical weekly  articles  for  them ;  the  sum  was  so  enormous 

» Of  the  play  Deacon  Brodie. 
234 


THE  UNITED  STATES  AGAIN 
that  I  tottered  ;  however,  Scribner  at  once  offered  me  the    1887 


same  scale  to  give  him  a  monthly  paper  in  his  magazine ; 
indeed  it  is  rather  higher,  ;^720  for  the  twelve  papers. 
This  I  could  not  decently  refuse ;  and  I  am  now  a  yoked 
man,  and  after  a  fit  of  my  usual  impotence  under  bondage, 
seem  to  have  got  into  the  swing.  I  suppose  I  shall  scarce 
manage  to  do  much  else;  but  there  is  the  fixed  sum, 
which  shines  like  a  sun  in  the  firmament.  A  prophet  has 
certainly  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  honour  (and  much  coins)  in 
another  country,  whatever  he  has  in  his  own. 

I  got  Gleeson  White;  your  best  work  and  either  the 
best  or  second  best  in  the  book  is  the  Ballade  in  Hot 
Weather  ;  that  is  really  a  masterpiece  of  melody  and  fancy. 
Damn  your  Villanelles  —  and  everybody's.  G.  Mac- 
donald  comes  out  strong  in  his  two  pious  rondels ;  Pons 
Bandusice  seems  as  exquisite  as  ever.  To  my  surprise, 
I  liked  two  of  the  Pantoums,  the  blue-bottle,  and  the 
still  better  after-death  one  from  Lave  in  Idleness,  Lang 
cuts  a  poor  figure,  except  in  the  Cricket  one  ;  your  pat- 
ter ballade  is  a  great  tour  de  force,  but  spoiled  by  similar 
caesuras.  On  the  whole  't  is  a  ridiculous  volume,  and  I 
had  more  pleasure  out  of  it  than  I  expected.  I  forgot  to 
praise  Grant  Allen's  excellent  ballade,  which  is  the  one 
that  runs  with  yours,  —  and  here,  to  the  point,  a  note 
from  you  at  Margate — among  East  Winds  and  Plain 
Women,  damn  them!  Well,  what  can  we  do  or  say? 
We  are  only  at  Saranac  for  the  winter ;  and  if  this  Deacon 
comes  off,  why  you  may  join  us  there  in  glory ;  I  would 
I  had  some  news  of  it.  Saranac  is  not  quite  so  dear,  in 
some  ways,  as  the  rest  of  this  land,  where  it  costs  you  a 
pound  to  sneeze,  and  fifty  to  blow  your  nose ;  but  even 
here  it  costs  $2.^0  to  get  a  box  from  the  station !     Think 

235 


my.  36 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1888    of  it !     Lift  it  up  tenderly  !     They  had  need  to  pay  well ! 

^^'  ^^  but  how  poor  devils  live ;  and  how  it  can  pay  to  take  a 

theatre  company  over  to  such  a  land,  is  more  than  I  can 

fancy.   The  devil  of  the  States  for  you  is  the  conveyances, 

they  are  so  dear — but  O,  what  is  not ! 

I  have  thrown  off  my  cold  in  excellent  style,  though 
still  very  groggy  about  the  knees,  so  that  when  I  climb  a 
paling,  of  which  we  have  many,  I  feel  as  precarious  and 
nutatory  as  a  man  of  ninety.  Under  this  I  grind  ;  but  I 
believe  the  place  will  suit  me.  Must  stop.  —  Ever  affec- 
tionately, R.  L.  S. 


To  Edmund  Gosse 

[Saranac  Lake,  March  ^i,  1888,] 
MY  DEAR  GOSSE, — Why  SO  plaintive  ?  Either  the  post- 
ofifice  has  played  us  false,  or  you  were  in  my  debt.  In 
case  it  should  be  my  letter  that  has  failed  to  come  to  post, 
I  must  tell  again  the  fate  of  Mrs.  Gosse's  thermometer. 
It  hangs  in  our  sitting-room,  where  it  has  often  marked 
freezing  point  and  below;  *'  See  what  Gosse  says,"  is  a 
common  word  of  command.  But  the  point  is  this:  in  the 
verandah  hangs  another  thermometer,  condemned  to  reg- 
ister minus  40^  and  the  class  of  temperatures ;  and  to  him, 
we  have  given  the  name  of  the  Quarterly  Reviewer.  I  hope 
the  jape  likes  you. 

Please  tell  the  Fortnightly  man  that  I  am  sorry  but  I 
can  do  nothing  of  that  sort  this  year,  as  I  am  under  a 
pledge  to  Scribner's;  and  indeed  my  monthly  articles  take 
the  best  of  my  time.  It  was  a  project  I  went  into  with 
horrid  diffidence;  and  lucre  was  my  only  motive.  I  get 
on  better  than  I  expected,  but  it  is  difficult  to  find  an  arti- 

236 


THE  UNITED  STATES  AGAIN 

cle  of  the  sort  required  for  each  date,  and  to  vary  the  1888 
matter  and  keep  up  (if  possible)  the  merit.  I  do  not  know  *  **' 
if  you  think  I  have  at  all  succeeded ;  it  seemed  to  me  this 
really  worked  paper  was  more  money's  worth  (as  well  as 
probably  better  within  my  means)  than  the  Lang  business 
at  the  Sign  of  the  Ship.  Indeed  I  feel  convinced  1  could 
never  have  managed  that;  it  takes  a  gift  to  do  it.  Here 
is  lunch. — Yours  afftly.,  R.  L.  S. 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

Having  spent  the  last  fortnight  of  April  at  New  York,  Stevenson  and 
his  stepson  moved  at  the  beginning  of  May  to  the  small  New  Jersey 
watering-place  from  whence  the  following  letters  are  dated  :  his  wife 
having  meanwhile  gone  to  San  Francisco,  where  she  presently  made 
arrangements  for  the  Pacific  yachting  trip. 

Union  House,  Manasquan,  New  Jersey 

[May,  1888]. 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,— We  are  here  at  a  delightful  country 
inn,  like  a  country  French  place,  the  only  people  in  the 
house,  a  cat-boat  at  our  disposal,  the  sea  always  audible 
on  the  outer  beach,  the  lagoon  as  smooth  as  glass,  all 
the  little,  queer,  many  coloured  villas  standing  shuttered 
and  empty ;  in  front  of  ours,  across  the  lagoon,  two  long 
wooden  bridges;  one  for  the  rail,  one  for  the  road,  sound- 
ing with  intermittent  traffic.  It  is  highly  pleasant,  and  a 
delightful  change  from  Saranac.  My  health  is  much  bet- 
ter for  the  change;  I  am  sure  I  walked  about  four  miles 
yesterday,  one  time  with  another  — well,  say  three  and  a 
half ;  and  the  day  before,  I  was  out  for  four  hours  in  the 
cat-boat,  and  was  as  stiff  as  a  board  in  consequence. 
More  letters  call.— Yours  ever,  R.  L.  S. 

237 


i888 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

To  Lady  Taylor 

[Manasquan,  May,  j888.] 

MY  DEAR  LADY  TAYLOR,  — I  have  to  announce  our 
great  news.  On  June  15th  we  sail  from  San  Francisco  in 
the  schooner  yacht  Casco,  for  a  seven  months*  cruise  in 
the  South  Seas.  You  can  conceive  what  a  state  of  excite- 
ment we  are  in;  Lloyd  perhaps  first;  but  this  is  an  old 
dream  of  mine  which  actually  seems  to  be  coming  true, 
and  I  am  sun-struck.  It  seems  indeed  too  good  to  be 
true ;  and  that  we  have  not  deserved  so  much  good  for- 
tune. From  Skerryvore  to  the  Galapagos  is  a  far  cry! 
And  from  poking  in  a  sick-room  all  winter  to  the  deck  of 
one's  own  ship,  is  indeed  a  heavenly  change. 

All  these  seven  months  I  doubt  if  we  can  expect  more 
than  three  mails  at  the  best  of  it :  and  I  do  hope  we  may 
hear  something  of  your  news  by  each.  I  have  no  very 
clear  views  as  to  where  the  three  addresses  ought  to  be, 
but  if  you  hear  no  later  news,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
will  always  have  the  run  of  our  intended  movements. 
And  an  early  letter  there  would  probably  catch  us  at  the 
Sandwich  Islands.  Tahiti  will  probably  be  the  second 
point:  and  (as  I  roughly  guess)  Quito  the  third.  But  the 
whole  future  is  invested  with  heavenly  clouds. 

1  trust  you  are  all  well  and  content,  and  have  good  news 
of  the  Shelleys,  to  whom  I  wish  you  would  pass  on  ours. 
They  should  be  able  to  sympathise  with  our  delight. 

Now  I  have  all  my  miserable  Scribner  articles  to  rake 
together  in  the  inside  of  a  fortnight:  so  you  must  not 
expect  me  to  be  more  copious.  I  have  you  all  in  the 
kindest  memory,  and  am,  your  affectionate  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 

Remember  me  to  Aubrey  de  Vere. 
238 


X 

PACIFIC  VOYAGES 
(December,  i888-September,  1890) 


X 

PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

(DECEMBER,  1888-SEPTEMBER,  1890) 


[Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Sidney  Colvin  isss 

/€T.  38 

This  letter  from  Mrs.  Stevenson  serves  to  fill  out  and  explain  allusions 
in  the  three  or  four  preceding.  The  beautiful  brown  princess  is  Prin- 
cess Moe,  ex-queen  of  Raiatea,  well  known  to  readers  of  Pierre  Loti 
and  Miss  Gordon  Gumming.  The  move  away  from  Papeete,  where 
Stevenson  had  fallen  seriously  ill,  had  been  made  in  hopes  of  finding  on 
the  island  a  climate  that  would  suit  him  better. 

Tautira,  Tahiti,  Dec,  4th  [1888], 
Dear,  long  neglected,  though  never  forgotten  Custo- 
dian, I  write  you  from  fairyland,  where  we  are  living  in  a 
fairy  story,  the  guests  of  a  beautiful  brown  princess.  We 
came  to  stay  a  week,  five  weeks  have  passed,  and  we  are 
still  indefinite  as  to  our  time  of  leaving.  It  was  chance 
brought  us  here,  for  no  one  in  Papeete  could  tell  us  a 
word  about  this  part  of  the  island  except  that  it  was  very 
fine  to  look  at,  and  inhabited  by  wild  people — *' almost 
as  wild  as  the  people  of  Anaho !  '*  That  touch  about  the 
people  of  Anaho  inclined  our  hearts  this  way,  so  we  finally 
concluded  to  take  a  look  at  the  other  side  of  Tahiti.  The 
place  of  our  landing  was  windy,  uninhabited  except  by 
mosquitoes,  and  Louis  was  ill.  The  first  day  Lloyd  and 
the  Captain  made  an  exploration,  but  came  back  dis- 
gusted.    They  had  found  a  Chinaman,  a  long  way  off, 

241 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1888    who  seemed  to  have  some  horses,  but  no  desire  to  hire 

VET     ^8 

'  ^  them  to  strangers,  and  they  had  found  nothing  else  what- 
ever. The  next  morning  1  took  Valentine  and  went  on  a 
prospecting  tour  of  my  own.  I  found  the  Chinaman,  per- 
suaded him  to  let  me  have  two  horses  and  a  wagon,  and 
went  back  for  the  rest  of  my  family.  When  asked  where 
I  wished  to  go,  I  could  only  say  to  the  largest  native  vil- 
lage and  the  most  wild.  Ill  as  Louis  was,  I  brought  him 
the  next  day,  and  shall  never  cease  to  be  thankful  for  my 
courage,  for  he  has  gained  health  and  strength  every  day. 
He  takes  sea  baths  and  swims,  and  lives  almost  entirely 
in  the  open  air  as  nearly  without  clothes  as  possible,  a 
simple  pyjama  suit  of  striped  light  flannel  his  only  dress. 
As  to  shoes  and  stockings  we  all  have  scorned  them  for 
months  except  Mrs.  Stevenson,  who  often  goes  barefoot 
and  never,  I  believe,  wears  stockings.  Lloyd's  costume, 
in  which  he  looks  remarkably  well,  consists  of  a  striped 
flannel  shirt  and  a  pareu.  The  pareu  is  no  more  or  less 
than  a  large  figured  blue  and  white  cotton  window  cur- 
tain twisted  about  the  waist,  and  hanging  a  little  below 
the  bare  knees.  Both  Louis  and  Lloyd  wear  wreaths  of 
artificial  flowers,  made  of  the  dried  pandanus  leaf,  on  their 
hats. 

Moe  has  gone  to  Papeete  by  the  command  of  the  king, 
whose  letter  was  addressed  **To  the  great  Princess  at 
Tautira.  P.V.''  P.V.  stands  for  Pomar^  5th.  Every 
evening,  before  she  went,  we  played  Van  John  lying  in  a 
circle  on  pillows  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with  our  heads 
together :  and  hardly  an  evening  passed  but  it  struck  us 
afresh  how  very  much  you  would  like  Moe,  and  we  told 
her  of  you  again.  The  house  (really  here  a  palace)  in 
which  we  live,  belongs  to  the  sub-chief,  Ori,  a  subject 

242 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

and  relation  of  the  Princess.  He,  and  his  whole  family,  1888 
consisting  of  his  wife,  his  two  little  adopted  sons,  his  ^^'  ^ 
daughter  and  her  two  young  babies,  turned  out  to  live  in 
a  little  bird-cage  hut  of  one  room.  Ori  is  the  very  finest 
specimen  of  a  native  we  have  seen  yet;  he  is  several 
inches  over  six  feet,  of  perfect  though  almost  gigantic  pro- 
portions, and  looks  more  like  a  Roman  Emperor  in  bronze 
than  words  can  express.  One  day,  when  Moe  gave  a 
feast,  it  being  the  correct  thing  to  do,  we  all  wore  v/reaths 
of  golden  yellow  leaves  on  our  heads ;  when  Ori  walked 
in  and  sat  down  at  the  table,  as  with  one  voice  we  all 
cried  out  in  "admiration.  His  manners  and  I  might  say 
his  habit  of  thought  are  English.  In  some  ways,  he  is  so 
like  a  Colonel  of  the  Guards  that  we  often  call  him  Colo- 
nel. It  was  either  the  day  before,  or  the  morning  of  our 
public  feast,  that  Louis  asked  the  Princess  if  she  thought 
Ori  would  accept  his  name.  She  was  sure  of  it,  and 
much  pleased  at  the  idea.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
Louis,  blushing  like  a  schoolgirl,  when  Ori  came  in,  and 
the  brotherhood  was  offered.  So  now  if  you  please,  Louis 
is  no  more  Louis,  having  given  that  name  away  in  the 
Tahitian  form  of  Ruiy  but  is  known  as  Terii-Tera  (pro- 
nounced Ter^^terah),  that  being  Ori's  Christian  name. 
*'Ori  of  Ori'*  is  his  clan  name. 

Let  me  tell  you  of  our  village  feast.  The  chief,  who 
was  our  guide  in  the  matter,  found  four  large  fat  hogs, 
which  Louis  bought,  and  four  cases  of  ship's  biscuit  were 
sent  over  from  the  CascOy  which  is  lying  at  Papeete 
for  repairs.  Our  feast  cost  in  all  about  eighty  dollars. 
Every  Sunday  all  things  of  public  interest  are  announced 
in  the  Farehau  (an  enormous  public  bird  cage)  and  the 
news  of  the  week  read  aloud  from  the  Papeete  journal, 

243 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1888  if  it  happens  to  turn  up.  Our  feast  was  given  on  a 
^^'  ^  Wednesday,  and  was  announced  by  the  chief  the  Sun- 
day before,  who  referred  to  Louis  as  **the  rich  one." 
Our  hogs  were  killed  in  the  morning,  washed  in  the  sea, 
and  roasted  whole  in  a  pit  with  hot  stones.  When  done 
they  were  laid  on  their  stomachs  in  neat  open  coffins  of 
green  basket  work,  each  hog  with  his  case  of  biscuits  be- 
side him.  Early  in  the  morning  the  entire  population 
began  bathing,  a  bath  being  the  preliminary  to  everything. 
At  about  three  0* clock — four  was  the  hour  set — there  was 
a  general  movement  towards  our  premises,  so  that  I  had  to 
hurry  Louis  into  his  clothes,  all  white,  even  to  his  shoes. 
Lloyd  was  also  in  white,  but  barefoot.  I  was  not  prepared, 
so  had  to  appear  in  a  red  and  white  muslin  gown,  also  bare- 
foot. As  Mrs.  Stevenson  had  had  a  feast  of  her  own,  con- 
ducted on  religious  principles,  she  kept  a  little  in  the  back- 
ground, so  that  her  dress  did  not  matter  so  much.  The 
chief,  who  speaks  French  very  well,  stood  beside  Louis  to 
interpret  for  him.  By  the  time  we  had  taken  our  respective 
places  on  the  veranda  in  front  of  our  door,  an  immense 
crowd  had  assembled.  They  came  in  five,  instead  of  four 
detachments  which  was  what  the  chief  expected,  and  he 
was  a  little  confused  at  first,  as  he  and  Louis  had  been 
arranging  a  speech  to  four  sets  of  people,  which  ran  in 
this  order.  The  clergyman  at  the  head  of  the  Protestants : 
the  chief,  council,  and  irreligious: — one  of  the  council  at 
their  head.  The  schoolmaster  with  the  schoolchildren : 
the  catechist  and  the  Catholics:  but  there  was  another 
very  small  sect,  by  some  strange  mischance  called  Mor- 
mons, which  it  was  supposed  would  be  broken  up  and 
swallowed  by  the  others.  But  no,  the  Mormons  came  in 
a  body  alone,  marshalled  by  the  best  and  wittiest  speaker 

244 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

— bar  Rui — in  Tautira.  Each  set  of  people  came  bending  1888 
under  the  weight  of  bamboo  poles  laden  with  fruits,  pigs,  ^^'  ^ 
fowls,  etc.  All  were  dressed  in  their  gayest  parius,  and 
many  had  wreaths  of  leaves  or  flowers  on  their  heads. 
The  prettiest  sight  of  all  was  the  children,  who  came 
marching  two  and  two  abreast,  the  bamboo  poles  lying 
lengthwise  across  their  shoulders. 

When  all  the  offerings  had  been  piled  in  five  great 
heaps  upon  the  ground,  Louis  made  his  oration  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  squealing  of  pigs,  the  cackling  of 
hens,  and  the  roar  of  the  surf  which  beats  man-high  upon 
the  roof.  A  speech  was  made  in  return  on  behalf  of  the 
village,  and  then  each  section  sent  forth  its  orator,  the 
speeches  following  in  the  order  1  have  given  above.  Each 
speaker  finished  by  coming  forward  with  one  of  the  smaller 
things  in  his  hand,  which  he  offered  personally  to  Louis, 
and  then  shook  hands  with  us  all  and  retired.  Among 
these  smaller  presents  were  many  fish-hooks  for  large  fish- 
ing, laboriously  carved  from  mother-of-pearl  shell.  One 
man  came  with  one  egg  in  each  hand,  saying,  **  Carry 
these  to  Scotland  with  you,  let  them  hatch  into  cocks, 
and  their  song  shall  remind  you  of  Tautira.*'  The  school- 
master, with  a  leaf -basket  of  rose  apples,  made  his  speech 
in  French.  Somehow  the  whole  effect  of  the  scene  was 
like  a  story  out  of  the  Bible,  and  1  am  not  ashamed  that 
Louis  and  I  both  shed  tears  when  we  saw  the  enchanting 
procession  of  schoolchildren.  The  Catholic  priest.  Father 
Bruno,  a  great  friend  of  ours,  said  that  for  the  next  fifty 
years  the  time  of  the  feast  of  the  rich  one  will  be  talked 
of :  which  reminds  me  of  our  friend  Donat,  of  Fakarava, 
who  was  temporary  resident  at  the  time  we  were  there. 
'M  am  so  glad,'*  he  said,  **that  the  Casco  came  in  just 

245 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1888    now,  Otherwise  I  should  be  forgotten :  but  now  the  people 
'^^*  ^     will  always  say  this  or  that  happened  so  long  before  —  or 
so  long  after  — the  coming  of  the  Silver  Ship ^  when  Donat 
represented  the  government." 

In  front  of  our  house  is  a  broad  stretch  of  grass,  dotted 
with  cocoanuts,  breadfruits,  mangoes,  and  the  strange 
pandanus  tree.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  them,  their 
lower  branches  glowing  with  the  rich  colours  of  the  fruits 
hung  upon  them  by  Ori  and  his  men,  and  great  heaps 
lying  piled  against  their  roots,  on  the  evening  of  our  feast. 
From  the  bamboo  poles  that  they  were  carried  upon,  a  pen 
was  made  for  the  ten  pigs,  and  a  fowl  house  for  the 
twenty-three  fowls  that  were  among  the  presents.  But 
there  was  a  day  of  reckoning  at  hand.  Time  after  time 
we  ran  down  to  the  beach  to  look  for  the  CascOy  until  we 
were  in  despair.  For  over  a  month  we  had  lived  in  Ori's 
house,  causing  him  infinite  trouble  and  annoyance,  and 
not  even  his,  at  that.  Areia  (the  chief  —  means  the  Prince) 
went  to  Papeete  and  came  back  with  a  letter  to  say  that 
more  work  had  to  be  done  upon  the  Casco^  and  it  might 
be  any  time  before  she  could  get  to  Tautira.  We  had 
used  up  all  our  stores,  and  had  only  a  few  dollars  of  money 
left  in  Tautira,  and  not  very  much  in  Papeete.  Could  we 
stand  the  journey  to  Papeete,  we  could  not  live  upon  the 
yacht  in  the  midst  of  the  workmen,  and  we  had  not 
money  enough  left  to  live  at  an  hotel.  We  were  playing 
cards  on  the  floor,  as  usual,  when  this  message  came,  and 
you  can  imagine  its  effect.  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  Rui 
would  force  us  to  stay  on  with  him,  but  what  depressed 
me  the  most  of  all,  was  the  fact  of  Louis  having  made 
brothers  with  him  just  before  this  took  place.  Had  there 
been  a  shadow  of  doubt  on  our  dear  Rui's  face,  I  should 

346 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

have  fled  from  before  him.  Sitting  there  on  the  floor  1888 
waiting  for  him  was  too  much  for  my  nerves  and  I  burst 
into  tears,  upon  which  the  princess  wept  bitterly.  In  the 
meantime  the  priest  had  dropped  in,  so  that  we  had  him  and 
Moe,  and  Areia,  as  witnesses  to  our  humiliating  position. 
First  came  Madame  Rui,  who  heard  the  story,  and  sat 
down  on  the  floor  in  silence,  which  was  very  damping  for 
a  beginning,  and  then  Ori  of  Ori,  the  magnificent,  who 
listened  to  the  tale  of  the  shipwrecked  mariners  with  seri- 
ous dignity,  asking  one  or  two  questions,  and  then  spoke 
to  this  effect.  **You  are  my  brother:  all  that  I  have  is 
yours.  I  know  that  your  food  is  done,  but  I  can  give 
you  plenty  of  fish  and  taro.  We  like  you,  and  wish  to 
have  you  here.  Stay  where  you  are  till  the  Casco  comes. 
Be  happy — et  ne  pleurez  pas,'*  Louis  dropped  his  head 
into  his  hands  and  wept,  and  then  we  all  went  up  to  Rui 
and  shook  hands  with  him  and  accepted  his  offer.  Madame 
Rui,  who  had  been  silent  only  as  a  dutiful  wife,  that  her 
husband  might  speak  first,  poured  forth  manifold  reasons 
for  our  staying  on  as  long  as  we  could  possibly  manage. 
During  all  this  scene,  an  attendant  of  the  princess  had 
been  sitting  on  the  floor  behind  us,  a  baby  in  his  arms, 
where  he  had  ensconced  himself  for  the  purpose  of  watching 
the  game.  He  understood  nothing  of  what  was  going  on ; 
we  wondered  afterwards  what  he  thought  of  it.  Reduced 
as  we  were,  we  still  had  a  few  bottles  of  champagne  left. 
Champagne  being  an  especial  weakness  of  our  gigantic 
friend,  it  occurred  to  some  one  that  this  was  a  proper 
occasion  to  open  a  couple  of  bottles.  Louis,  the  Princess, 
and  I  were  quite,  as  the  Scotch  so  well  say,  **  begrutten," 
Areia's  immense  eyes  were  fairly  melting  out  of  his  head 
with  emotion,  the  priest  was  wiping  his  eyes  and  blowing 

247 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1888  his  nose:  and  then  for  no  apparent  cause  we  suddenly 
^^'  ^  fell  to  drinking  and  clinking  glasses  quite  merrily :  the 
bewildered  attendant  clinked  and  drank  too,  and  then  sat 
down  and  waited  in  case  there  should  be  any  repetition  of 
the  drinking  part  of  the  performance.  And  sure  enough 
there  was,  for  in  the  midst  of  an  animated  discussion  as 
to  ways  and  means,  Mrs.  Stevenson  announced  that  it 
was  St.  Andrew's  day,  so  again  the  attendant  clinked 
and  drank  with  Ori's  mad  foreigners. 

It  is  quite  true  that  we  live  almost  entirely  upon  native 
food ;  our  luncheon  to-day  consisted  of  raw  fish  with  sauce 
made  of  cocoanut  milk  mixed  with  sea  water  and  lime 
juice,  taro  poi-poi,  and  bananas  roasted  in  hot  stones  in  a 
little  pit  in  the  ground,  with  cocoanut  cream  to  eat  with 
them.  Still  we  like  coffee  in  the  evening,  a  little  wine  at 
dinner,  and  a  few  other  products  of  civilisation.  It  would 
be  possible,  the  chief  said,  to  send  a  boat,  but  that  would 
cost  sixty  dollars.  A  final  arrangement,  which  we  were 
forced  to  accept,  was  that  Rui  should  go  in  his  own  boat, 
and  the  chief  would  appoint  a  substitute  for  some  public 
work  that  he  was  then  engaged  upon.  Early  the  next 
morning,  amidst  a  raging  sea  and  a  storming  wind,  Rui 
departed  with  three  men  to  help  him.  It  is  forty  miles  to 
Papeete,  and  Rui,  starting  in  the  early  morning,  arrived 
there  at  nine  o'clock ;  but  alas,  the  wind  was  against  him, 
and  it  was  altogether  six  days  before  he  got  back. 

Louis  has  done  a  great  deal  of  work  on  his  new  story. 
The  Master  of  BallantraCf  almost  finished  it  in  fact,  while 
Mrs.  Stevenson  and  1  are  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  hat- 
making,  which  is  a  ladies'  accomplishment  taking  the  place 
of  water-colour  drawing  in  England.  It  is  a  small  compli- 
ment to  present  a  hat  to  an  acquaintance.     Altogether  we 

248 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

have  about  thirteen.  Next  door  to  us  is  Areia's  out-of-  1888 
door  house,  where  he  and  the  ladies  of  his  family  sleep  ^^'  ^ 
and  eat;  it  has  a  thatched  roof  of  palm  branches,  and  a 
floor  of  boards,  the  sides  and  ends  being  open  to  the  world. 
On  the  floor  are  spread  mats  plaited  of  pandanus  leaves, 
and  pillows  stuffed  with  silk  cotton  from  the  cotton  tree. 
We  make  little  calls  upon  the  ladies,  lie  upon  the  mats, 
and  smoke  cigarettes  made  of  tobacco  leaves  rolled  in  a  bit 
of  dried  pandanus,  and  admire  their  work,  or  get  a  lesson ; 
or  they  call  upon  us,  and  lie  upon  our  mats.  One  day 
there  was  an  election  in  the  Farehau.  It  takes  place  all 
over  the  island  once  a  year,  and  among  others,  the  sub- 
chief  and  head-councillor  is  chosen.  For  the  latter,  our 
Rui  was  a  candidate.  In  the  beginning,  the  French  de- 
posed the  born  chiefs  and  told  the  people  to  elect  men  for 
themselves.  The  choice  of  Tautira  fell  upon  Rui,  who 
declined  the  honour,  saying  that  Areia  was  his  natural 
chief,  and  he  could  not  take  a  position  that  should  belong 
to  his  superior ;  upon  which  the  people  elected  Areia  chief, 
and  Rui  sub-chief  and  head-councillor.  We  all  went  over 
to  the  Farehau,  where  Areia  sat  in  the  middle  of  his  coun- 
cillors on  a  dais  behind  a  long  table.  The  Farehau  is  an 
immense  bird-cage  of  bamboos  tied  together  with  pan- 
danus fibre,  and  thatched  with  palms.  In  front  of  the 
dais  the  ground  is  deeply  covered  with  dried  leaves.  The 
costume  of  the  dignitaries  was  rather  odd.  Areia  wore  a 
white  shirt  and  blue  flannel  coat,  which  was  well  enough ; 
but  on  his  plump  legs  were  a  pair  of  the  most  incredible 
trousers:  light  blue  calico  with  a  small  red  pattern,  such 
as  servant  girls  wear  for  gowns  in  England :  on  his  feet 
were  neat  little  shoes  and  stockings.  Rui  was  a  fine  sight, 
and  we  were  very  proud  of  him ;  he  sat,  exactly  like  an  Eng- 

249 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1888  lish  gentleman,  holding  himself  well  in  hand,  alert  as  a 
^^'  ^  fox  and  keen  as  a  greyhound :  several  men  spoke  from 
the  farther  end  of  the  hall,  making  objections  of  some  sort, 
we  could  see.  Rui  listened  with  a  half  satirical,  half 
kindly  smile  in  his  eyes,  and  then  dropped  a  quiet  answer 
without  rising  from  his  seat,  which  had  the  effect  of  rais- 
ing a  shout  of  laughter,  and  quite  demolishing  his  oppo- 
nent. Voters  came  up  to  the  table  and  dropped  their  bits 
of  paper  into  a  slit  in  a  box :  some  led  children  by  the 
hand,  and  some  carried  babies  in  their  arms;  across  the 
centre  of  the  great  room  children  and  dogs  ran  chasing 
each  other  and  playing.  I  noticed  two  little  maids  who 
walked  up  and  down  for  a  long  time  with  their  arms  inter- 
twined about  each  other's  waists.  Near  where  we  sat 
(we  were  on  the  dais,  above  the  common  herd) ,  a  pretty 
young  lady  having  tied  up  her  dog's  mouth  with  a  tuft  of 
grass,  industriously  caught  and  cracked  fleas  from  its  back. 
Both  Lloyd  and  I  grew  very  sleepy,  and  as  we  did  not 
like  to  leave  till  the  election  was  decided,  we  just  threw 
ourselves  down  and  took  a  nap  at  the  feet  of  the  council- 
lors: nor  did  we  wake  till  the  chief  called  out  to  us  in 
English  '*it  is  finished."  I  never  thought  1  should  be 
able  to  calmly  sleep  at  a  public  meeting  on  a  platform  in 
the  face  of  several  hundred  people:  but  it  is  wonderful 
how  quickly  one  takes  up  the  ways  of  a  people  when  you 
live  with  them  as  intimately  as  we  do. 

I  hear  dinner  coming  on  the  table,  so  with  much  love 
from  us  all  to  you  and  other  dear  ones,  including  our  dear 
friend  Henry  James,  believe  me,  affectionately  yours, 
Fanny  V.  de  G.  Stevenson.! 


250 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 


To  Sidney  Colvin 


1889 

.ET.  38 


Ill-health  and  pressing  preoccupations,  together  with  uncertainty  as 
to  when  and  where  letters  would  reach  him,  had  kept  me  from  writing 
during  the  previous  autumn  and  winter. 

HONOLULU,  March,  i88g, 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,— Still  not  a  word  from  you!  1  am 
utterly  cast  down;  but  1  will  try  to  return  good  for  evil 
and  for  once  give  you  news.  We  are  here  in  the  suburb 
of  Honolulu  in  a  rambling  house  or  set  of  houses  in  a  great 
garden. 


•9 


•S 

^ 


■  ra 

5 

f  , 

Beach 


a  a  a^  stairs  up  to  balcony. 


I.  Lloyd's  room.  2.  My  mother's  room.  3.  A  room 
kept  dark  for  photographs.  4.  The  kitchen.  5.  Balcony, 
6.  The  Lanaiy  an  open  room  or  summer  parlour,  partly 

251 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1889  surrounded  with  Venetian  shutters,  in  part  quite  open, 
^^'  ^^  which  is  the  living-room.  7.  A  crazy  dirty  cottage  used 
for  the  arts.  8.  Another  crazy  dirty  cottage,  where  Fanny 
and  I  live.  The  town  is  some  three  miles  away,  but  the 
house  is  connected  by  telephone  with  the  chief  shops,  and 
the  tramway  runs  to  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  us.  I 
find  Honolulu  a  beastly  climate  after  Tahiti  and  have  been 
in  bed  a  little;  but  my  colds  took  on  no  catarrhal  symptom, 
which  is  staggeringly  delightful.  I  am  studying  Hawaiian 
with  a  native,  a  Mr.  Joseph  Poepoe,  a  clever  fellow  too: 
the  tongue  is  a  little  bewildering;  I  am  reading  a  pretty 
story  in  native — no,  really  it  is  pretty,  although  wander- 
ing and  wordy;  highly  pretty  with  its  continual  traffic 
from  one  isle  to  another  of  the  soothsayer,  pursuing  rain- 
bows. Fanny  is,  I  think,  a  good  deal  better  on  the  whole, 
having  profited  like  me  by  the  tropics ;  my  mother  and 
Lloyd  are  first-rate.  I  do  not  think  I  have  heard  from 
you  since  last  May;  certainly  not  since  June;  and  this 
really  frightens  me.  Do  write,  even  now.  Scribner's 
Sons  it  should  be ;  we  shall  probably  be  out  of  this  some 
time  in  April,  home  some  time  in  June.  But  the  world 
whirls  to  me  perceptibly,  a  mass  of  times  and  seasons  and 
places  and  engagements,  and  seas  to  cross,  and  continents 
to  traverse,  so  that  I  scarce  know  where  I  am.  Well,  I 
have  had  a  brave  time.  Et  ego  in  Arcadia— though  I 
don't  believe  Arcadia  was  a  spot  upon  Tahiti.  I  have 
written  another  long  narrative  poem :  the  Song  of  Rahero. 
Privately,  I  think  it  good :  but  your  ominous  silence  over 
the  Feast  of  Famine  leads  me  to  fear  we  shall  not  be 
agreed.  Is  it  possible  I  have  wounded  you  in  some  way  ? 
1  scarce  like  to  dream  that  it  is  possible ;  and  yet  I  know 
too  well  it  may  be  so.    If  so,  don*t  write,  and  you  can 

253 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

pitch  into  me  when  we  meet.  I  am,  admittedly,  as  mild  1889 
as  London  Stout  now ;  and  the  Old  Man  Virulent  much  ^^'  ^ 
a  creature  of  the  past.  My  dear  Colvin,  I  owe  you  and 
Fleeming  Jenkin,  the  two  older  men  who  took  the  trouble, 
and  knew  how  to  make  a  friend  of  me,  everything  that  I 
have  or  am :  if  I  have  behaved  ill,  just  hold  on  and  give 
me  a  chance,  you  shall  have  the  slanging  of  me  and  I  bet 
I  shall  prefer  it  to  this  silence.  —  Ever,  my  dear  Colvin, 
your  most  affectionate  R.  L.  S. 


[Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Mrs.  Sitwell 

This  letter  brought  to  friends  in  England  the  first  news  of  the  intended 
prolongation  of  the  cruise  among  the  remoter  islands  of  the  Pacific. 

Honolulu, 
towards  the  end  of  March,  i88g. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  —  Louis  has  improved  so  wonderfully 
in  the  delicious  islands  of  the  South  Seas,  that  we  think 
of  trying  yet  one  more  voyage.  We  are  a  little  uncertain 
as  to  how  we  shall  go,  whether  in  a  missionary  ship,  or 
by  hiring  schooners  from  point  to  point,  but  the  **unre- 
generate*'  islands  we  must  see.  I  suppose  we  shall  be 
off  some  time  in  June,  which  will  fetch  us  back  to  England 
in  another  year's  time.  You  could  hardly  believe  it  if 
you  could  see  Louis  now.  He  looks  as  well  as  he  ever 
did  in  his  life,  and  has  had  no  sign  of  cough  or  hemorrhage 
(begging  pardon  of  Nemesis)  for  many  months.  It  seems 
a  pity  to  return  to  England  until  his  health  is  firmly  re- 
established, and  also  a  pity  not  to  see  all  that  we  can  see 
quite  easily  starting  from  this  place:  and  which  will  be 
our  only  opportunity  in  life.  Of  course  there  is  the  usual 
risk  from  hostile  natives,  and  the  horrible  sea,  but  a  positive 

253 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
1889    risk  is  so  much  more  wholesome  than  a  negative  one,  and 

JET     '^8 

'  ^  it  is  all  such  joy  to  Louis  and  Lloyd.  As  for  me,  I  hate 
the  sea,  and  am  afraid  of  it  (though  no  one  will  believe  that 
because  in  time  of  danger  I  do  not  make  an  outcry  — 
nevertheless  I  am  afraid  of  it,  and  it  is  not  kind  to  me), 
but  I  love  the  tropic  weather,  and  the  wild  people,  and  to 
see  my  two  boys  so  happy.  Mrs.  Stevenson  is  going  back 
to  Scotland  in  May,  as  she  does  not  like  to  be  longer  away 
from  her  old  sister,  who  has  been  very  ill.  And  besides, 
we  do  not  feel  justified  in  taking  her  to  the  sort  of  places 
we  intend  to  visit.  As  for  me,  I  can  get  comfort  out  of 
very  rough  surroundings  for  my  people,  I  can  work  hard 
and  enjoy  it;  I  can  even  shoot  pretty  well,  and  though  I 
** don't  want  to  fight,  by  jingo  if  1  must,'*  why  I  can.  I 
don't  suppose  there  will  be  any  occasion  for  that  sort  of 
thing — only  in  case. 

I  am  not  quite  sure  of  the  names,  but  I  think  our  new 
cruise  includes  the  Gilberts,  the  Fijis,  and  the  Solomons. 
A  letter  might  go  from  the  Fijis;  Louis  will  write  the  par- 
ticulars, of  which  I  am  not  sure.  As  for  myself,  I  have 
had  more  cares  than  I  was  really  fit  for.  To  keep  house 
on  a  yacht  is  no  easy  thing.  When  Louis  and  I  broke 
loose  from  the  ship  and  lived  alone  amongst  the  natives 
I  got  on  very  well.  It  was  when  I  was  deathly  sea-sick, 
and  the  question  was  put  to  me  by  the  cook,  **  what  shall 
we  have  for  the  cabin  dinner,  what  for  to-morrow's  break- 
fast, what  for  lunch  ?  and  what  about  the  sailors'  food  ? 
Please  come  and  look  at  the  biscuits,  for  the  weevils  have 
got  into  them,  and  show  me  how  to  make  yeast  that  will 
rise  of  itself,  and  smell  the  pork  which  seems  pretty  high, 
and  give  me  directions  about  making  a  pudding  with 
molasses — and  what  is  to  be  done  about  the  bugs?" — 

254 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

etc.  etc.  In  the  midst  of  heavy  dangerous  weather,  when  1889 
I  was  lying  on  the  floor  clutching  a  basin,  down  comes  the  ^^'  ^ 
mate  with  a  cracked  head,  and  I  must  needs  cut  off  the  hair 
matted  with  blood,  wash  and  dress  the  wound,  and  admin- 
ister restoratives.  I  do  not  like  being  "the  lady  of  the 
yacht,'*  but  ashore!  O,  then  I  felt  I  was  repaid  for  all. 
I  wonder  did  any  of  my  letters  from  beautiful  Tautira 
ever  come  to  hand,  with  the  descriptions  of  our  life  with 
Louis's  adopted  brother  Ori  a  Ori  ?  Ori  wrote  to  us,  if 
no  one  else  did,  and  I  mean  to  give  you  a  translation  of 
his  letter.     It  begins  with  our  native  names. 

Tautira,  26  Dec,,  1888, 
To  Teriitera  (Louis)  and  Tapina  Tutu   (myself)  and 
Aromaiterai  (Lloyd)  and  Teiriha  (Mrs.  Stevenson)  Saluta- 
tion in  the  true  Jesus. 

I  make  you  to  know  my  great  affection.  At  the  hour 
when  you  left  us,  I  was  filled  with  tears ;  my  wife,  Rui 
Tehini,  also,  and  all  of  my  household.  When  you  em- 
barked I  felt  a  great  sorrow.  It  is  for  this  that  I  went  upon 
the  road,  and  you  looked  from  that  ship,  and  I  looked  at 
you  on  the  ship  with  great  grief  until  you  had  raised  the 
anchor  and  hoisted  the  sails.  When  the  ship  started,  I  ran 
along  the  beach  to  see  you  still ;  and  when  you  were  on 
the  open  sea  I  cried  out  to  you,  "farewell  Louis":  and 
when  I  was  coming  back  to  my  house  I  seemed  to  hear 
your  voice  crying  "Rui  farewell."  Afterwards  I  watched 
the  ship  as  long  as  I  could  until  the  night  fell ;  and  when 
it  was  dark  1  said  to  myself,  "if  I  had  wings  I  should  fly 
to  the  ship  to  meet  you,  and  to  sleep  amongst  you,  so  that 
I  might  be  able  to  come  back  to  shore  and  to  tell  Rui 
Tehini,  *I  have  slept  upon  the  ship  of  Teriitera.'  **   After 

255 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1889  that  we  passed  that  night  in  the  impatience  of  grief.  To- 
^^'  ^  wards  eight  o'clock  I  seemed  to  hear  your  voice,  **Teriitera 
—  Rui — here  is  the  hour  for  putter  and  tiro"  (cheese  and 
syrup) .  I  did  not  sleep  that  night,  thinking  continually 
of  you,  my  very  dear  friend,  until  the  morning:  being 
then  awake  I  went  to  see  Tapina  Tutu  on  her  bed,  and 
alas,  she  was  not  there.  Afterwards  I  looked  into  your 
rooms;  they  did  not  please  me  as  they  used  to  do.  I  did 
not  hear  your  voice  crying,  **  hail  Rui."  I  thought  then 
that  you  had  gone,  and  that  you  had  left  me.  Rising  up  1 
went  to  the  beach  to  see  your  ship,  and  I  could  not  see 
it.  I  wept,  then,  till  the  night,  telling  myself  continually, 
"Teriitera  returns  into  his  own  country  and  leaves  his 
dear  Rui  in  grief,  so  that  I  suffer  for  him,  and  weep  for 
him."  I  will  not  forget  you  in  my  memory.  Here  is  the 
thought :  I  desire  to  meet  you  again.  It  is  my  dear 
Teriitera  makes  the  only  riches  I  desire  in  this  world.  It 
is  your  eyes  that  I  desire  to  see  again.  It  must  be  that 
your  body  and  my  body  shall  eat  together  at  one  table : 
there  is  what  would  make  my  heart  content.  But  now 
we  are  separated.  May  God  be  with  you  all.  May  His 
word  and  His  mercy  go  with  you,  so  that  you  may  be 
well  and  we  also,  according  to  the  words  of  Paul. 

OR!  A  ORI  ;  that  is  to  say,  Rui. 

After  reading  this  to  me  Louis  has  left  in  tears  saying 
that  he  is  not  worth  that  such  a  letter  should  be  written 
to  him.  We  hope  to  so  manage  that  we  shall  stop  at 
Tahiti  and  see  Rui  once  more.  I  tell  myself  that  pleasant 
story  when  I  wake  in  the  night. 

I  find  my  head  swimming  so  that  I  cannot  write  any 
more.     1  wish  some  rich  Catholic  would  send  a  parlour 

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PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

organ  to  Pere  Bruno  of  Tautira.     I  am  going  to  try  and     1889 
save  money  to  do  it  myself,  but  he  may  die  before  I  have  ^^'  ^ 
enough.    I  feel  ashamed  to  be  sitting  here  when  I  think 
of  that  old  man  who  cannot  draw  because  of  scrivener's 
paralysis,  who  has  no  one  year  in  and  year  out  to  speak 
to  but  natives  (our  Rui  is  a  Protestant  not  bigoted  like  the 
rest  of  them — but  still  a  Protestant)  and  the  only  pastime 
he  has  is  playing  on  an  old  broken  parlour  organ  whose 
keys  are  mostly  dumb.     I  know  no  more  pathetic  figure. 
Have  you  no  rich  Catholic  friends  who  would  send  him 
an  organ  that  he  could  play  upon  ?     Of  course  I  am  talk- 
ing  nonsense,  and  yet  I  know  somewhere  that  person 
exists  if  only  I  knew  the  place. 
Our  dearest  love  to  you  all.  Fanny.] 


[Mrs.  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Sidney  Colvin 

This  letter  shows  the  writer  in  her  character  of  wise  and  anxious  critic 
of  her  husband's  work.  The  result,  in  the  judgment  of  most  of  his 
friends,  went  far  to  justify  her  misgivings. 

Honolulu,  May  21st,  1889. 

best  of  friends, — It  was  a  joy  inexpressible  to  get  a 
word  from  you  at  last.  Fortunately  for  our  peace  of  mind, 
we  were  almost  positive  that  your  letters  had  been  sent 
to  the  places  we  had  already  left.  Still  it  was  a  bitter 
disappointment  to  get  nothing  from  you  when  we  arrived 
here.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  us  both  throwing  over 
the  immense  package  of  letters  searching  for  your  hand- 
writing. Now  that  we  know  you  have  been  ill,  please  do 
let  some  one  send  us  a  line  to  our  next  address  telling  us 
how  you  are.  What  that  next  address  may  be  we  do  not 
yet  know,  as  our  final  movements  are  a  little  uncertain. 

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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1889    To  begin  with,  a  trading  schooner,  the  Equator y  will  come 

^^'  ^    along  some  time  in  the  first  part  of  June,  lie  outside  the 

harbour  here  and  signal  to  us.     Within  forty-eight  hours 

,  we  shall  pack  up  our  possessions,  our  barrel  of  sauerkraut, 
our  barrel  of  salt  onions,  our  bag  of  cocoanuts,  our  native 
garments,  our  tobacco,  fish  hooks,  red  combs,  and  Turkey 
red  calicoes  (all  the  latter  for  trading  purposes),  our  hand 
organ,  photograph  and  painting  materials,  and  finally  our 
magic  lantern — all  these  upon  a  large  whaleboat,  and  go 
out  to  the  Equator,  Lloyd,  also,  takes  a  fiddle,  a  guitar,  a 
native  instrument  something  like  a  banjo,  called  a  taro- 
patch  fiddle,  and  a  lot  of  song  books.  We  shall  be  carried 
first  to  one  of  the  Gilberts,  landing  at  Butaritari.  The 
Equator  is  going  about  amongst  the  Gilbert  group,  and  we 
have  the  right  to  keep  her  over  when  we  like  within  rea- 
sonable limits.  Finally  she  will  leave  us,  and  we  shall 
have  to  take  the  chances  of  what  happens  next.  We  hope 
to  see  the  Marshalls,  the  Carolines,  the  Fijis,  Tonga  and 
Samoa  (also  other  islands  that  I  do  not  remember),  per- 
haps staying  a  little  while  in  Sydney,  and  stopping  on  our 
way  home  to  see  our  friends  in  Tahiti  and  the  Marquesas. 
I  am  very  much  exercised  by  one  thing.  Louis  has  the 
most  enchanting  material  that  any  one  ever  had  in  the 
whole  world  for  his  book,  and  I  am  afraid  he  is  going  to 
spoil  it  all.  He  has  taken  into  his  Scotch  Stevenson  head, 
that  a  stern  duty  lies  before  him,  and  that  his  book  must 
be  a  sort  of  scientific  and  historical  impersonal  thing,  com- 
paring the  different  languages  (of  which  he  knows  nothing, 
really)  and  the  different  peoples,  the  object  being  to  settle 
the  question  as  to  whether  they  are  of  common  Malay  origin 
or  not.  Also  to  compare  the  Protestant  and  Catholic  mis- 
sions, etc.,  and  the  whole  thing  to  be  impersonal,  leaving 

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PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

out  all  he  knows  of  the  people  themselves.  And  I  believe  1889 
there  is  no  one  living  who  has  got  so  near  to  them,  or  ^^*  ^ 
who  understands  them  as  he  does.  Think  of  a  small 
treatise  on  the  Polynesian  races  being  offered  to  people 
who  are  dying  to  hear  about  Ori  a  Ori,  the  making  of 
brothers  with  cannibals,  the  strange  stories  they  told,  and 
the  extraordinary  adventures  that  befell  us: — suppose 
Herman  Melville  had  given  us  his  theories  as  to  the  Poly- 
nesian language  and  the  probable  good  or  evil  results  of 
the  missionary  influence  instead  of  Omoo  and  TypeCy  or 
Kinglake^  instead  of  Eothen,  Louis  says  it  is  a  stern 
sense  of  duty  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  which  is  more 
alarming  than  anything  else.  I  am  so  sure  that  you  will 
agree  with  me  that  1  am  going  to  ask  you  to  throw  the 
weight  of  your  influence  as  heavily  as  possible  in  the 
scales  with  me.  Please  refer  to  the  matter  in  the  letters 
we  shall  receive  at  our  first  stopping  place,  otherwise 
Louis  will  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  Sydney  actually 
reading  up  other  people's  books  on.  the  Islands.  What  a 
thing  it  is  to  have  a  **man  of  genius''  to  deal  with.  It  is 
like  managing  an  over  bred  horse.  Why  with  my  own 
feeble  hand  1  could  write  a  book  that  the  whole  world 
would  jump  at.  Please  keep  any  letters  of  mine  that  con- 
tain any  incidents  of  our  wanderings.  They  are  very  ex- 
act as  to  facts,  and  Louis  may,  in  this  conscientious  state 
of  mind  (indeed  1  am  afraid  he  has),  put  nothing  in  his 
diary  but  statistics.  Even  if  1  thought  it  a  desirable  thing 
to  write  what  he  proposes,  1  should  still  think  it  impossible 
unless  after  we  had  lived  and  studied  here  some  twenty 
years  or  more. 

Now  I  am  done  with  my  complaining,  and  shall  turn  to 

*  The  writer  has  omitted  something  here, 
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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1889  the  pleasanter  paths.  Louis  went  to  one  of  the  other 
^^'  ^  islands  a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  quite  alone,  got  drenched 
with  rain  and  surf,  rode  over  mountain  paths — five  and  a 
half  hours  one  day — and  came  back  none  the  worse  for  it. 
To-day  he  goes  to  Molokai,  the  leper  island.  He  never 
has  a  sign  of  hemorrhage,  the  air  cushion  is  a  thing  of  the 
past,  and  altogether  he  is  a  new  man.  How  he  will  do  in 
the  English  climate  again  I  do  not  know,  but  in  these  lati- 
tudes he  is  very  nearly  a  well  man,  nothing  seems  to  do 
him  harm  but  overwork.  That,  of  course,  is  sometimes 
difficult  to  prevent.  Now,  however,  the  Master  is  done, 
we  have  enough  money  to  go  upon  and  there  is  no  need  to 
work  at  all.     I  must  stop.    My  dear  love  to  you  all. 

Fanny  V.  de  G.  Stevenson.] 


To  Lady  Taylor 

HONOLVLVy  June  igthf  i88g. 
MY  DEAR  LADY  TAYLOR,— Our  new  home,  the  Equator ^ 
trading  schooner,  rides  at  the  buoy  to-night,  and  we  are 
for  sea  shortly.  All  your  folk  of  the  Roost  held  us  for 
phantoms  and  things  of  the  night  from  our  first  appear- 
ance ;  but  I  do  wish  you  would  try  to  believe  in  our  con- 
tinued existence,  as  flesh  and  blood  obscurely  tossed  in  the 
Pacific,  or  walking  coral  shores,  and  in  Our  affection, 
which  is  more  constant  than  becomes  the  breasts  of  such 
absconders.  My  good  health  does  not  cease  to  be  won- 
derful to  myself:  Fanny  is  better  in  these  warm  places; 
it  is  the  very  thing  for  Lloyd ;  and  in  the  matter  of  inter- 
est, the  spice  of  life,  etc.,  words  cannot  depict  what  fun 
we  have.  Try  to  have  a  little  more  patience  with  the 
fugitives,  and  think  of  us  now  and  again  among  the  Gil- 

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PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

berts,  where  we  ought  to  be  about  the  time  when  you  re-  1890 
ceive  this  scrap.  They  make  no  great  figure  on  the  atlas,  *  ^^ 
I  confess;  but  you  will  see  the  name  there,  if  you  look— 
which  I  wish  you  would,  and  try  to  conceive  us  as  still 
extant.  We  all  send  the  kindest  remembrances  to  all  of 
you ;  please  make  one  of  the  girls  write  us  the  news  to  the 
care  of  R.  Towns  &  Co.,  Sydney,  New  South  Wales, 
where  we  hope  to  bring  up  about  the  end  of  the  year — or 
later.     Do  not  forget  yours  affectionately, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Lady  Taylor 

This  letter  contains  the  first  announcement  of  the  purchase  of  the 
Vailima  estate  (not  yet  so  named).  Sir  Percy  Shelley  had  died  in  the 
previous  December. 

Apia,  Samoa,  Jan.  20th,  i8go, 
MY  DEAR  LADY  TAYLOR,  — I  shall  hope  to  see  you  in 
some  months  from  now,  when  1  come  home — to  break  up 
my  establishment — 1  know  no  diminutive  of  the  word. 
Your  daughters  cast  a  spell  upon  me ;  they  were  always 
declaring  I  was  a  winged  creature  and  would  vanish  into 
the  uttermost  isle ;  and  they  were  right,  and  I  have  made 
my  preparations.  I  am  now  the  owner  of  an  estate  upon 
Upolu,  some  two  or  three  miles  behind  and  above  Apia ; 
three  streams,  two  waterfalls,  a  great  cliff,  an  ancient  na- 
tive fort,  a  view  of  the  sea  and  lowlands,  or  (to  be  more 
precise)  several  views  of  them  in  various  directions,  are 
now  mine.  It  would  be  affectation  to  omit  a  good  many 
head  of  cattle;  above  all  as  it  required  much  diplomacy 
to  have  them  thrown  in,  for  the  gentleman  who  sold  to 
me  was  staunch.     Besides  all  this,  there  is  a  great  deal 

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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1890  more  forest  than  I  have  any  need  for ;  or  to  be  plain  the 
'  ^^  whole  estate  is  one  impassable  jungle,  which  must  be  cut 
down  and  through  at  considerable  expense.  Then  the 
house  has  to  be  built;  and  then  (as  a  climax)  we  may- 
have  to  stand  a  siege  in  it  in  the  next  native  war. 

I  do  feel  as  if  I  was  a  coward  and  a  traitor  to  desert  my 
friends ;  only,  my  dear  lady,  you  know  what  a  miserable 
corrhyzal  (is  that  how  it  is  spelt?)  creature  I  was  at 
home :  and  here  I  have  some  real  health,  I  can  walk,  I  can 
ride,  I  can  stand  some  exposure,  I  am  up  with  the  sun,  I 
have  a  real  enjoyment  of  the  world  and  of  myself;  it  would 
be  hard  to  go  back  again  to  England  and  to  bed ;  and  I 
think  it  would  be  very  silly.  I  am  sure  it  would ;  and 
yet  I  feel  shame,  and  I  know  I  am  not  writing  like  myself. 
I  wish  you  knew  how  much  I  admired  you,  and  when  I 
think  of  those  I  must  leave,  how  early  a  place  your  name 
occupies.  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  to  know  you  very 
long ;  and  yet  I  feel  as  if  my  leaving  England  were  a  special 
treachery  to  you,  and  my  leaving  you  a  treachery  to  my- 
self. I  will  only  ask  you  to  try  to  forgive  me :  for  I  am 
sure  I  will  never  quite  forgive  myself.  Somebody  might 
write  to  me  in  the  care  of  R.  Towns  &  Co.,  Sydney,  New 
South  Wales,  to  tell  me  if  you  can  forgive.  But  you  will 
do  quite  right  if  you  cannot.  Only  let  me  come  and  see 
you  when  we  do  return,  or  it  will  be  a  lame  home-coming. 

My  wife  suffered  a  good  deal  in  our  last,  somewhat  ardu- 
ous voyage ;  all  our  party  indeed  suffered  except  myself. 
Fanny  is  now  better  but  she  is  still  no  very  famous  success 
in  the  way  of  health. 

All  the  while  I  have  been  writing,  I  have  had  another 
matter  in  my  eye ;  of  which  I  scarce  like  to  speak :  You 
know  of  course  that  I  am  thinking  of  Sir  Percy  and  his 

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PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

widow.  The  news  has  reached  me  in  the  shape  of  a  1890 
newspaper  cutting,  I  have  no  particulars.  He  had  a  sweet,  *  ^^ 
original  nature;  I  think  1  liked  him  better  than  ever  1 
should  have  liked  his  father ;  I  am  sorry  he  was  always 
a  little  afraid  of  me  ;  if  I  had  had  more  chance,  he  would 
have  liked  me  too,  we  had  so  much  in  common,  and  I 
valued  so  much  his  fine  soul,  as  honest  as  a  dog*s,  and  the 
romance  of  him,  which  was  like  a  dog's  too,  and  like  a 
poet's  at  the  same  time.  If  he  had  not  been  Shelley's  son, 
people  would  have  thought  more  of  him  ;  and  yet  he  was 
the  better  of  the  two,  bar  verses. 

Please  tell  my  dear  Ida  and  Una  that  we  think  much  of 
them,  as  well  as  of  your  dear  self,  and  believe  me,  in 
words  which  you  once  allowed  me  to  use  (and  I  was  very 
much  affected  when  you  did  so),  your  affectionate  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


TO  Henry  James 

The  Solution  is  a  short  story  of  Mr.  Henry  James,  first  published  in 
a  periodical  and  reprinted  in  the  collection  called  The  Lesson  of  the 
Master  (Macmillans). 

UNION  Club,  Sydney,  February  ig,  1890. 
Here — in  this  excellent  civilised,  antipodal  club  smoking- 
room,  I  have  just  read  the  first  part  of  your  Solution. 
Dear  Henry  James,  it  is  an  exquisite  art ;  do  not  be  troubled 
by  the  shadows  of  your  French  competitors  :  not  one,  not 
de  Maupassant,  could  have  done  a  thing  more  clean  and 
fine;  dry  in  touch,  but  the  atmosphere  (as  in  a  fine  sum- 
mer sunset)  rich  with  colour  and  with  perfume.  I  shall 
say  no  more;  this  note  is  De  Solutione;  except  that  I  — 

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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1890    that  we — are  all  your  sincere  friends  and  hope  to  shake 
'  ^^  you  by  the  hand  in  June. 

ROBERT  LOUIS  Stevenson. 

signed,  sealed  and 

delivered  as  his  act 

and  deed 

and  very  thought  of  very  thought, 

this  nineteenth  of  February  in  the  year  of  our 

Lord  one  thousand  eight  hundred  ninety 

and  nothing. 

TO  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson 

Written  while  he  was  still  in  a  white  heat  of  indignation  on  behalf 
of  Father  Damien.  He  was  not  aware  that  Dr.  Hyde's  letter  had 
been  a  private  one,  not  meant  for  publicity,  and  later  came  to  think  he 
might  have  struck  as  effectively  on  behalf  of  Damien,  without  striking 
so  fiercely  against  Dr.  Hyde  (see  below,  Appendix,  pp.  321-322). 
"  Damon"  was  the  Revd.  F.  Damon,  a  missionary  in  Hawaii. 

Union  Club,  Sydney,  March  5,  1890. 

MY  dear  MOTHER,  —  I  understand  the  family  keeps  you 
somewhat  informed.  For  myself  I  am  in  such  a  whirl  of 
work  and  society,  I  can  ill  spare  a  moment.  My  health 
is  excellent  and  has  been  here  tried  by  abominable  wet 
weather,  and  (what 's  waur)  dinners  and  lunches.  As 
this  is  like  to  be  our  metropolis,  I  have  tried  to  lay  myself 
out  to  be  sociable  with  an  eye  to  yoursel*.  Several  niceish 
people  have  turned  up :  Fanny  has  an  evening,  but  she  is 
about  at  the  end  of  the  virtuous  effort,  and  shrinks  from 
the  approach  of  any  fellow  creature. 

Have  you  seen  Hyde's  (Dr.  not  Mr.)  letter  about  Damien  ? 
That  has  been  one  of  my  concerns ;  I  have  an  answer  in 

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PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

the  press ;  and  have  just  written  a  difficult  letter  to  Damon     1890 
trying  to  prepare  him  for  what  (I  fear)  must  be  to  him  ex-  ^^'  ^^ 
tremely  painful.     The  answer  is  to  come  out  as  a  pam- 
phlet; of  which  I  make  of  course  a  present  to  the  pub- 
lisher.    I  am  not  a  cannibal,  I  would  not  eat  the  flesh  of 
Dr.  Hyde, — and  it  is  conceivable  it  will  make  a  noise  in 
Honolulu.     I  have  struck  as  hard  as  I  knew  how;  nor  do 
I  think  my  answer  can  fail  to  do  away  (in  the  minds  of 
all  who  see  it)  with  the  effect  of  Hyde's  incredible  and 
really  villainous  production.    What  a  mercy  I  wasn't  this 
man's  guest  in  the  Morning  Star!     I  think  it  would  have 
broke  my  heart. 
Time  for  me  to  go !  —  I  remain,  with  love, 

R.  L.  S. 


To  Miss  Boodle 

Exactly  what  tale  of  doings  in  the  garret  at  Skerryvore  had  been  re- 
lated to  Stevenson  (in  the  character  of  Robin  Lewison)  by  his  corre- 
spondent (in  the  character  of  Miss  Green)  cannot  well  be  gathered  from 
this  reply.  But  the  letter  is  interesting  as  containing  the  only  mention 
of  certain  schemes  of  romance  afterwards  abandoned. 

Union  Club,  Sydney,  ist  September,  1890, 
MY  DEAR  miss  BOODLE,  — I  fmd  you  have  been  behav- 
ing very  ill :  been  very  ill,  in  fact.  I  fmd  this  hard  to  for- 
give; probably  should  not  forgive  it  at  all  if  Robin  Lewison 
had  not  been  sick  himself  and  a  wretched  sick-room  pris- 
oner in  this  club  for  near  a  month.  Well,  the  best  and 
bravest  sometimes  fail.  But  who  is  Miss  Green  ?  Don't 
know  her !  I  knew  a  lady  of  an  exceedingly  generous  and 
perfervid  nature — worthy  to  be  suspected  of  Scotch  blood 
for  the  perfervidness — equipped  with  a  couple — perhaps  a 

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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1890  brace  sounds  better  English — of  perfervid  eyes — with  a 
^^'  ^^  certain  graceful  gaucherie  of  manner,  almost  like  a  child's, 
and  that  is  at  once  the  highest  point  of  gaucherie  and 
grace — a  friend  everybody  I  ever  saw  was  delighted  to  see 
come  and  sorry  to  see  go.  Yes,  I  knew  that  lady,  and 
can  see  her  now.  But  who  was  Miss  Green  ?  There  is 
something  amiss  here.  Either  the  Robin  Lewisons  have 
been  very  shabbily  treated,  or — and  this  is  the  serious 
part  of  the  affair — somebody  unknown  to  me  has  been 
entrusted  with  the  key  of  the  Skerryvore  garret.  This 
may  go  as  far  as  the  Old  Bailey,  ma'am. 

But  why  should  I  gird  at  you  or  anybody,  when  the 
truth  is  we  are  the  most  miserable  sinners  in  the  world  ? 
For  we  are  not  coming  home,  I  dare  not.  Even  coming 
to  Sydney  has  made  me  quite  ill,  and  back  I  go  to  Samoa, 
whither  please  address— Apia,  Samoa  —  (and  remember  it 
is  S^md-a,  a  spondee  to  begin  with,  or  Sahmoa,  if  you 
prefer  that  writing)  —  back  I  and  my  wife  go  to  Samoa  to 
live  on  our  landed  estate  with  four  black  labour  boys  in  a 
kind  of  a  sort  of  house,  which  Lloyd  will  describe  to  you. 
For  he  has  gone  to  England:  receive  him  like  a  favour 
and  a  piece  of  cake;  he  is  our  greeting  to  friends. 

I  paused  here  to  put  in  the  date  on  the  first  page.  1 
am  precious  nearly  through  my  fortieth  year,  thinks  1  to 
myself.  Must  be  nearly  as  old  as  Miss  Green,  thinks  I. 
O,  come!  I  exclaimed,  not  as  bad  as  that!  Some  lees 
of  youth  about  the  old  remnant  yet. 

My  amiable  Miss  Green,  I  beg  you  to  give  me  news  of 
your  health,  and  if  it  may  be  good  news.  And  when  you 
shall  have  seen  Lloyd,  to  tell  me  how  his  reports  of  the 
South  Seas  and  our  new  circumstances  strike  such  an  aw- 
fully old  person  as  yourself,  and  to  tell  me  if  you  ever 

266 


PACIFIC  VOYAGES 

received  a  letter  1  sent  you  from  Hawaii.     1  remember     '890 
thinking — or  remember  remembering  rather — it  was  (for       '  ^^ 
me)  quite  a  long  respectable  communication.     Also,  you 
might  tell  me  if  you  got  my  war-whoop  and  scalping- 
knife  assault  on  le  nomme  Hyde. 

I  ought  not  to  forget  to  say  your  tale  fetched  me  (Miss 
Green)  by  its  really  vile  probability.  If  we  had  met  that 
man  in  Honolulu  he  would  have  done  it,  and  Miss  Green 
would  have  done  it.  Only,  alas!  there  is  no  completed 
novel  lying  in  the  garret :  would  there  were !  It  should 
be  out  to-morrow  with  the  name  to  it,  and  relieve  a  kind 
of  tightness  in  the  money  market  much  deplored  in  our 
immediate  circle.  To  be  sure  (now  I  come  to  think  of  it) 
there  are  some  seven  chapters  of  TJie  Great  North  Road; 
three,  I  think,  of  Rohin  Run  the  Hedge,  given  up  when 
some  nefarious  person  pre-empted  the  name;  and  either 
there — or  somewhere  else — likely  New  York — one  chap- 
ter of  David  Balfour,  and  five  or  six  of  the  Memoirs  of 
Henry  Shovel,  That  's  all.  But  Lloyd  and  I  have  one- 
half  of  The  Wrecker  in  type,  and  a  good  part  of  The  Pearl 
Fisher  (O,  a  great  and  grisly  tale  that!)  in  MS.  And  I 
have  a  projected,  entirely  planned  love-story — everybody 
will  think  it  dreadfully  improper,  1  'm  afraid — called  Can- 
nonmills.  And  I  've  a  vague,  rosy  haze  before  me— a  love- 
story  too,  but  not  improper— called  The  Rising  Sun,  (It  *s 
the  name  of  the  wayside  inn  where  the  story,  or  much  of 
the  story,  runs ;  but  it 's  a  kind  of  a  pun :  it  means  the 
stirring  up  of  a  boy  by  falling  in  love,  and  how  he  rises  in 
the  estimation  of  a  girl  who  despised  him,  though  she 
liked  him,  and  had  befriended  him;  I  really  scarce  see 
beyond  their  childhood  yet,  but  I  want  to  go  beyond,  and 
make  each  out-top  the  other  by  successions :  it  should  be 

267 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1890  pretty  and  true  if  I  could  do  it.)  Also  I  have  my  big  book, 
^T.  39  jj^^  South  Seas,  always  with  me,  and  a  sair  handfu* — if 
I  may  be  allowed  to  speak  Scotch  to  Miss  Green — a  sair 
handfu'  it  is  likely  to  be.  All  this  literary  gossip  I  bestow 
upon  you  entre  confrtres.  Miss  Green,  which  is  little  more 
than  fair,  Miss  Green. 

Allow  me  to  remark  that  it  is  now  half-past  twelve 
o'clock  of  the  living  night ;  I  should  certainly  be  ashamed 
of  myself,  and  you  also;  for  this  is  no  time  of  the  night 
for  Miss  Green  to  be  colloguing  with  a  comparatively 
young  gentleman  of  forty.  So  with  all  the  kindest  wishes 
to  yourself,  and  all  at  Lostock,  and  all  friends  in  Hants,  or 
over  the  borders  in  Dorset,  I  bring  my  folly  to  an  end. 
Please  believe,  even  when  I  am  silent,  in  my  real  affec- 
tion ;  I  need  not  say  the  same  for  Fanny,  more  obdurately 
silent,  not  less  affectionate  than  I.  — Your  friend, 

ROBERT— ROBIN  LEWISON. 

(Nearly  had  it  wrong — force  of  habit.) 


966 


XI 

LIFE   IN   SAMOA  (VAILIMA  LETTERS) 
(June,  i89i-November,  1894) 


XI 
LIFE   IN   SAMOA  (VAILIMA  LETTERS) 

(June,  iSqi-November,  1894) 

To  Sidney  Colvin  1891 

lET.   40 

The  misgivings  herein  expressed  about  the  imminence  of  a  native  w^ar 
were  not  realised  until  two  years  later,  and  the  plans  of  defence  into 
which  Stevenson  here  enters  with  characteristic  gusto  were  not  put  to 
the  test. 

[\  kXUNiky  June  and  July  y  i8gi.] 
MY  DEAR  COLVIN,  — - 1  am  so  hideously  in  arrears  that  I 
know  not  where  to  begin.  However,  here  I  am  a  prisoner 
in  my  room,  unfit  for  work,  incapable  of  reading  with  in- 
terest, and  trying  to  catch  up  a  bit.  We  have  a  guest 
here :  a  welcome  guest :  my  Sydney  music  master,  whose 
health  broke  down,  and  who  came  with  his  remarkable 
simplicity,  to  ask  a  month's  lodging.  He  is  newly  mar- 
ried, his  wife  in  the  family  way  :  beastly  time  to  fall  sick. 
1  have  found,  by  good  luck,  a  job  for  him  here,  which  will 
pay  some  of  his  way  :  and  in  the  meantime  he  is  a  pleas- 
ant guest,  for  he  plays  the  flute  with  little  sentiment  but 
great  perfection,  and  endears  himself  by  his  simplicity. 
To  me,  especially ;  I  am  so  weary  of  finding  people  ap- 
proach me  with  precaution,  pick  their  words,  flatter,  and 
twitter ;  but  the  muttons  of  the  good  God  are  not  at  all 
afraid  of  the  lion.  They  take  him  as  he  comes,  and  he 
does  not  bite — at  least  not  hard.  This  makes  us  a  party 
of  I,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  8,  at  table;  deftly  waited  on  by 

271 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1891  Mary  Carter,  a  very  nice  Sydney  girl,  who  served  us  at 
'  ^°  2L  boarding-house  and  has  since  come  on — how  long  she 
will  endure  this  exile  is  another  story;  and  gauchely 
waited  on  by  Faauma,  the  new  left-handed  wife  of  the 
famed  Lafaele,  a  little  creature  in  native  dress  of  course 
and  as  beautiful  as  a  bronze  candlestick,  so  fine,  clean  and 
dainty  in  every  limb;  her  arms  and  her  little  hips  in  par- 
ticular masterpieces.  The  rest  of  the  crew  may  be  stated 
briefly,  the  great  Henry  Simeld,  still  to  the  front;  King, 
of  the  yellow  beard,  rather  a  disappointment — I  am  in- 
clined on  this  point  to  republican  opinions :  Ratke,  a  Ger- 
man cook,  good — and  Germanly  bad,  he  don't  make  my 
kitchen ;  Paul,  now  working  out  his  debts  outdoor ;  Emma, 
a  strange  weird  creature — I  suspect  (from  her  colour)  a 
quarter  white — widow  of  a  white  man,  ugly,  capable,  a 
really  good  laundress ;  Java— yes,  that  is  the  name— they 
spell  it  Siava,  but  pronounce  it,  and  explain  it  Java —  her 
assistant,  a  creature  I  adore  from  her  plain,  wholesome, 
bread-and-butter  beauty.  An  honest,  almost  ugly,  bright, 
good-natured  face ;  the  rest  (to  my  sense)  merely  exqui- 
site. She  comes  steering  into  my  room  of  a  morning,  like 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  elaborate  precaution ;  unlike  her,  noise- 
less. If  I  look  up  from  my  work,  she  is  ready  with  an 
explosive  smile.  I  generally  don't,  and  wait  to  look  at 
her  as  she  stoops  for  the  bellows,  and  trips  tiptoe  off  again, 
a  miracle  of  successful  womanhood  in  every  line.  I  am 
amused  to  find  plain,  healthy  Java  pass  in  my  fancy 
so  far  before  pretty  young  Faauma.  I  observed  Lloyd 
the  other  day  to  say  that  Java  must  have  been  lovely 
'*  when  she  was  young" ;  and  I  thought  it  an  odd  word, 
of  a  woman  in  the  height  of  health,  not  yet  touched  with 
fat,  though  (to  be  just)  a  little  slack  of  bust. 

272 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

Our  party  you  know  :  Fanny,  Lloyd,  my  mother.  Belle,  1891 
and  '*the  babe" — as  we  call  him — Austin.  We  have  ^^' ^^ 
now  three  instruments;  Boehm  flageolet,  flute,  and  Bb 
clarinet;  and  we  expect  in  a  few  days  our  piano.  This 
is  a  great  pleasure  to  me ;  the  band-mastering,  the  play- 
ing and  all.  As  soon  as  I  am  done  with  this  stage  of  a  let- 
ter, I  shall  return,  not  being  allowed  to  play,  to  bandmas- 
ter, being  engaged  in  an  attempt  to  arrange  an  air  with 
effect  for  the  three  pipes.     And  I'll  go  now,  by  jabers. 

July  ^rd, — A  long  pause :  occasioned,  first  by  some  days 
of  hard  work:  next  by  a  vile  quinsey — if  that  be  the  way 
to  spell  it.  But  to-day  I  must  write.  For  we  have  all 
kinds  of  larks  on  hand.  The  wars  and  rumours  of  wars 
begin  to  take  consistency,  insomuch  that  we  have  landed 
the  weapons  this  morning,  and  inspected  the  premises 
with  a  view  to  defence.  Of  course  it  will  come  to  noth- 
ing; but  as  in  all  stories  of  massacres,  the  one  you  don't 
prepare  for  is  the  one  that  comes  off.  All  our  natives 
think  ill  of  the  business ;  none  of  the  whites  do.  Accord- 
ing to  our  natives  the  demonstration  threatened  for  to-day 
or  to-morrow  is  one  of  vengeance  on  the  whites  —  small 
wonder — and  if  that  begins — where  will  it  stop  ?  Any- 
way I  don't  mean  to  go  down  for  nothing,  if  I  can  help  it ; 
and  to  amuse  you  I  will  tell  you  our  plans. 

There  is  the  house,  upper  story.  Our  weak  point  is  of 
course  the  sides  AB,  AH  ;  so  we  propose  to  place  half  our 
garrison  in  the  space  HGFD  and  half  in  the  opposite 
corner,  BB'CD.  We  shall  communicate  through  the  in- 
terior, there  is  a  water-tank  in  the  angle  C,  my  mother 
and  Austin  are  to  go  in  the  loft.  The  holding  of  only 
these  two  corners  and  deserting  the  corner  C  is  for  econ- 

273 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


1891 

iET.  40 


omy  and  communication,  two  doors  being  in  the  sides  GF 
and  CD;  so  that  any  one  in  the  corner  C  could  only 
communicate  or  be  reinforced  by  exposure.  Besides  we 
are  short  of  mattresses.  Garrison:  R.  L.  S.,  Lloyd, 
Fanny,  King,  Ratke — doubtful,  he  may  go — Emma,  Mary, 
Belle ;   weapons :   eight  revolvers  and  a  shot-gun,  and 


H 


A 

B 

B' 

C 

D 

E 

6 

F 

U 

C 

swords  galore;  but  we  're  pretty  far  gone  when  we  come 
to  the  swords.  It  has  been  rather  a  lark  arranging ;  but 
I  find  it  a  bore  to  write,  and  I  doubt  it  will  be  cruel  stale 
to  read  about,  when  all 's  over  and  done,  as  it  will  be  ere 
this  goes,  I  fancy :  far  more  ere  it  reaches  you. 


Date  unknown. — Well,  nothing  as  yet,  though  I  don't 
swear  by  it  yet.  There  has  been  a  lot  of  trouble,  and 
there  still  is  a  lot  of  doubt  as  to  the  future ;  and  those  who 
sit  in  the  chief  seats,  who  are  all  excellent,  pleasant  crea- 
tures, are  not,  perhaps,  the  most  wise  of  mankind.  They 
actually  proposed  to  kidnap  and  deport  Mataafa ;  a  scheme 

274 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

which  would  have  loosed  the  avalanche  at  once.  But  some  1891 
human  being  interfered  and  choked  off  this  pleasing  scheme.  ^  '  "^^ 
You  ask  me  in  yours  just  received,  what  will  become  of 
us  if  it  comes  to  war  ?  Well,  if  it  is  a  war  of  the  old  sort, 
nothing.  It  will  mean  a  little  bother,  and  a  great  deal  of 
theft,  and  more  amusement.  But  if  it  comes  to  the  mas- 
sacre lark,  I  can  only  answer  with  the  Bell  of  Old  Bow. 
You  are  to  understand  that,  in  my  reading  of  the  native 
character,  every  day  that  passes  is  a  solid  gain.  They 
put  in  the  time  public  speaking ;  so  wear  out  their  energy, 
develop  points  of  difference  and  exacerbate  internal  ill- 
feeling.  Consequently,  I  feel  less  apprehension  of  diffi- 
culty now,  by  about  a  hundredfold.  All  that  I  stick  to, 
is  that  if  war  begins,  there  are  ten  chances  to  one  we 
shall  have  it  bad.  The  natives  have  been  scurvily  used 
by  all  the  white  powers  without  exception;  and  they 
labour  under  the  belief,  of  which  they  can't  be  cured, 
that  they  defeated  Germany.  This  makes  an  awkward 
complication. 

I  was  extremely  vexed  to  hear  you  were  ill  again.  I 
hope  you  are  better.  'T  is  a  long  time  we  have  known 
each  other  now,  to  be  sure.  Well,  well !  you  say  you 
are  sure  to  catch  fever  in  the  bush ;  so  we  do  continually ; 
but  you  are  to  conceive  Samoa  fever  as  the  least  formida- 
ble malady  under  heaven :  implying  only  a  day  or  so  of 
slight  headache  and  languor  and  ill  humour,  easily  reduced 
by  quinine  or  antipyrine.  The  hot  fever  I  had  was  from 
over-exertion  and  blood  poisoning,  no  doubt,  and  irritation 
of  the  bladder ;  it  went  of  its  own  accord  and  with  rest. 
I  have  had  since  a  bad  quinsey  which  knocked  me  rather 
useless  for  about  a  week,  but  I  stuck  to  my  work,  with 
^eat  difficulty  and  small  success. 

275 


i€T.   41 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1891  Date  unknown,  — But  it's  fast  day  and  July,  and  the 
rude  inclement  depth  of  winter,  and  the  thermometer  was 
68  this  morning  and  a  few  days  ago  it  was  63,  and  we 
have  all  been  perishing  with  cold.  All  still  seems  quiet. 
Your  counterfeit  presentments  are  all  round  us :  the  pas- 
tel over  my  bed,  the  Dew-Smith  photograph  over  my 
door,  and  the  '*  celebrity  "  on  Fanny's  table.  My  room 
is  now  done,  and  looks  very  gay,  and  chromatic  with  its 
blue  walls  and  my  coloured  lines  of  books. 


To  Charles  Baxter 

[Vailima,  November y  i8gi.] 
DEAR  CHARLES, — [After  dealing  with  some  matters  of 
business]  I  believe  that 's  a\  By  this  time,  I  suppose  you 
will  have  heard  from  McClure,  and  the  Beach  ofFalesd  will 
be  decided  on  for  better  for  worse.  The  end  of  The  Wrecker 
goes  by  this  mail,  an  awfae  relief.  I  am  now  free  and 
can  do  what  I  please.  What  do  I  please  ?  I  kenna.  I  Ml 
bide  a  wee.  There  's  a  child's  history  in  the  wind;  and 
there  's  my  grandfather's  life  begun ;  and  there  's  a  hist"^ 
of  Samoa  in  the  last  four  or  five  years  begun — there  's  a 
kind  of  sense  to  this  book;  it  may  help  the  Samoans,  it 
may  help  me,  for  I  am  bound  on  the  altar  here  for  anti- 
Germanism.  Then  there 's  The  Pearl  Fisher  about  a  quar- 
ter done;  and  there's  various  short  stories  in  various 
degrees  of  incompleteness.  De'il  there's  plenty  grist; 
but  the  mill 's  unco  slaw !  To-morrow  or  next  day,  when 
the  mail 's  through,  I  '11  attack  one  or  other,  or  maybe 
something  else.  All  these  schemes  begin  to  laugh  at  me, 
for  the  day  's  far  through,  and  I  believe  the  pen  grows 
heavy.    However,  I  believe  The  Wrecker  is  a  good  yarn 

276 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

of  its  poor  sort,  and  it  is  certainly  well  nourished  with  1891 
facts;  no  realist  can  touch  me  there;  for  by  this  time  I  ^^'  ^^ 
do  begin  to  know  something  of  life  in  the  XlXth  century, 
which  no  novelist  either  in  France  or  England  seems  to 
know  much  of.  You  must  have  great  larks  over  masonry. 
You  're  away  up  in  the  ranks  now  and  (according  to  works 
that  I  have  read)  doubtless  design  assassinations.  But  I 
am  an  outsider;  and  I  have  a  certain  liking  for  a  light 
unto  my  path  which  would  deter  me  from  joining  the  rank 
and  file  of  so  vast  and  dim  a  confraternity.  At  your  alti- 
tude it  becomes  (of  course)  amusing  and  perhaps  useful. 
Yes,  I  remember  the  L.  J.  R.^  and  the  constitution,  and 
my  homily  on  Liberty,  and  yours  on  Reverence,  which 
was  never  written — so  I  never  knew  what  reverence  was. 
I  remember  I  wanted  to  write  Justice  also ;  but  I  forget  who 
had  the  billet.  My  dear  papa  was  in  a  devil  of  a  taking; 
and  I  had  to  go  and  lunch  at  Ferrier's  in  a  strangely  begrut- 
ten  state,  which  was  infra  dig,  for  a  homilist  on  liberty. 
It  was  about  four,  I  suppose,  that  we  met  in  the  Lothian 
Road, — had  we  the  price  of  two  bitters  between  us  ?  ques- 
tionable ! 

Your  bookseller  (I  have  lost  his  letter,  I  mean  the  maid 
has,  arranging  my  room,  and  so  have  to  send  by  you)  wrote 
me  a  letter  about  Old  Bailey  Papers.  Gosh,  I  near 
swarfed;  dam'd,  man,  I  near  had  dee'd  o't.  It 's  only  yin 
or  twa  volumes  I  want ;  say  500  or  1000  pages  of  the  stuff; 
and  the  worthy  man  (much  doubting)  proposed  to  bury  me 
in  volumes.  Please  allay  his  rage,  and  apologise  that  I 
have  not  written  him  direct.  His  note  was  civil  and  pur- 
poselike. And  please  send  me  a  copy  of  Henley's  Book 
of  Ferses;  mine  has  disappeared.  R.  L.  S. 

'  See  above,  p.  16. 

277 


1892 

/ET.  41 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


TO  MISS  BOODLE 

At  the  news  that  his  correspondent  was  occupied  teaching  and  enter- 
taining a  class  of  children  in  a  Kilbum  basement,  Stevenson  bethinks 
himself  of  helping  her  by  writing  an  account  of  Samoa  and  Samoan 
life  for  children. 

Vailima,  January  4th,  1892, 
MY  DEAR  ADELAIDE, — We  were  much  pleased  with  your 
letter  and  the  news  of  your  employment.  Admirable,  your 
method.  But  will  you  not  run  dry  of  fairy  stories.? 
Please  salute  your  pupils,  and  tell  them  that  a  long,  lean, 
elderly  man  who  lives  right  through  on  the  under  side  of 
the  world,  so  that  down  in  your  cellar  you  are  nearer  him 
than  the  people  in  the  street,  desires  his  compliments. 
This  man  lives  in  an  island  which  is  not  very  long,  and 
extremely  narrow.  The  sea  beats  round  it  very  hard,  so 
that  it  is  difficult  to  get  to  shore.  There  is  only  one  har- 
bour where  ships  come,  even  that  is  very  wild  and  dan- 
gerous ;  four  ships  of  war  were  broken  there  a  little  while 
ago,  and  one  of  them  is  still  lying  on  its  side  on  a  rock 
clean  above  water,  where  the  sea  threw  it  as  you  might 
throw  your  fiddle-bow  on  the  table.  All  round  the  harbour 
the  town  is  strung  out,  it  is  nothing  but  wooden  houses,  only 
there  are  some  churches  built  of  stone,  not  very  large,  but 
the  people  have  never  seen  such  fine  buildings.  Almost 
all  the  houses  are  of  one  story.  Away  at  one  end  lives 
the  king  of  the  whole  country.  His  palace  has  a  thatched 
roof  which  stands  upon  posts ;  it  has  no  walls,  but  when 
it  blows  and  rains,  they  have  Venetian  blinds  which  they 
let  down  between  the  posts  and  make  it  very  snug.  There 
is  no  furniture,  and  the  King  and  Queen  and  the  courtiers 
sit  and  eat  on  the  floor,  which  is  of  gravel :  the  lamp  stands 

278 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

there  too,  and  every  now  and  then  it  is  upset.  These  1892 
good  folks  wear  nothing  but  a  kilt  about  their  waists,  un-  ^  '  ^^ 
less  to  go  to  church  or  for  a  dance,  or  the  New  Year,  or 
some  great  occasion.  The  children  play  marbles  all  along 
the  street;  and  though  they  are  generally  very  jolly,  yet 
they  get  awfully  cross  over  their  marbles,  and  cry  and 
fight  like  boys  and  girls  at  home.  Another  amusement 
in  country  places  is  to  shoot  fish  with  a  bow  and  arrow. 
All  round  the  beach  there  is  bright  shallow  water  where 
fishes  can  be  seen  darting  or  lying  in  shoals.  The  child 
trots  round  the  shore,  and  wherever  he  sees  a  fish,  lets 
fly  an  arrow  and  misses,  and  then  wades  in  after  his  arrow. 
It  is  great  fun  (I  have  tried  it)  for  the  child,  and  I  never 
heard  of  it  doing  any  harm  to  the  fishes :  so  what  could  be 
more  jolly  ?  The  road  up  to  this  lean  man's  house  is  up- 
hill all  the  way  and  through  forests ;  the  forests  are  of  great 
trees,  not  so  much  unlike  the  trees  at  home,  only  here  and 
there  are  some  very  queer  ones  mixed  with  them,  cocoa- 
nut  palms,  and  great  forest  trees  that  are  covered  with 
blossom  like  red  hawthorn,  but  not  near  so  bright;  and 
from  all  the  trees  thick  creepers  hang  down  like  ropes,  and 
nasty-looking  weeds  that  they  call  orchids  grow  in  the 
forks  of  the  branches;  and  on  the  ground  many  prickly 
things  are  dotted  which  they  call  pine-apples :  I  suppose 
every  one  has  eaten  pine-apple  drops. 

On  the  way  up  to  the  lean  man's  house  you  pass  a  little 
village,  all  of  houses  like  the  king's  house,  so  that  as 
you  ride  through  you  can  see  everybody  sitting  at  dinner, 
or  if  it  be  night,  lying  in  their  beds  by  lamplight ;  for  all 
these  people  are  terribly  afraid  of  ghosts,  and  would  not 
lie  in  the  dark  for  any  favour.  After  the  village,  there  is 
only  one  more  house,  and  that  is  the  lean  man's.     For  the 

279 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  people  are  not  very  many,  and  live  all  by  the  sea,  and  the 
*  '^^  whole  inside  of  the  island  is  desert  woods  and  mountains. 
When  the  lean  man  goes  into  this  forest,  he  is  very  much 
ashamed  to  say  it,  but  he  is  always  in  a  terrible  fright. 
The  wood  is  so  great  and  empty  and  hot,  and  it  is  always 
filled  with  curious  noises;  birds  cry  like  children  and  bark 
like  dogs,  and  he  can  hear  people  laughing  and  felling  trees ; 
and  the  other  day  (when  he  was  far  in  the  woods)  he 
heard  a  great  sound  like  the  biggest  mill-wheel  possible 
going  with  a  kind  of  dot-and-carry-one  movement  like  a 
dance.  That  was  the  noise  of  an  earthquake  away  down 
below  him  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  that  is  the  same 
thing  as  to  say  away  up  towards  you  in  your  cellar  in 
Kilburn.  All  these  noises  make  him  feel  lonely  and  scared, 
and  he  doesn't  quite  know  what  he  is  scared  of.  Once 
when  he  was  just  about  to  cross  a  river,  a  blow  struck  him 
on  the  top  of  his  head  and  knocked  him  head-foremost 
down  the  bank  and  splash  into  the  water.  It  was  a  nut, 
I  fancy,  that  had  fallen  from  a  tree,  by  which  accidents 
people  are  sometimes  killed.  But  at  the  time  he  thought 
it  was  a  black  boy. 

Aha,  say  you,  and  what  is  a  black  boy  ?  Well,  there 
are  here  a  lot  of  poor  people  who  are  brought  here  from 
distant  islands  to  labour  as  slaves  for  the  Germans.  They 
are  not  at  all  like  the  king  or  his  people,  who  are  brown 
and  very  pretty;  but  these  are  black  as  negroes  and  as 
ugly  as  sin,  poor  souls,  and  in  their  own  lands  they  live 
all  the  time  at  war  and  cook  and  eat  men's  flesh.  The  Ger- 
mans thrash  them  with  whips  to  make  them  work,  and 
every  now  and  then  some  run  away  into  the  Bush,  as  the 
forest  is  called,  and  build  little  sheds  of  leaves,  and  eat 
nuts  and  roots  and  fruit,  and  dwell  there  by  themselves  in 

280 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

the  great  desert.  Sometimes  they  are  bad  and  wild  and  1892 
come  down  in  the  villages  and  steal  and  kill ;  and  people  ^^'  ^^ 
whisper  to  each  other  that  some  of  them  have  gone  back 
to  their  horrid  old  habits,  and  catch  men  and  women  in 
order  to  eat  them.  But  it  is  very  likely  not  true;  and 
the  most  of  them  are  only  poor,  stupid,  trembling,  half- 
starved,  pitiful  creatures  like  frightened  dogs.  Their  life 
is  all  very  well  when  the  sun  shines,  as  it  does  eight  or 
nine  months  in  the  year.  But  it  is  very  different  the  rest 
of  the  time.  The  wind  rages  here  most  violently.  The 
great  trees  thrash  about  like  whips ;  the  air  is  filled  with 
leaves  and  great  branches  flying  about  like  birds ;  and  the 
sound  of  the  trees  falling  shakes  the  earth.  It  rains  too 
as  it  never  rains  at  home.  You  can  hear  a  shower  while  it 
is  yet  half  a  mile  away,  hissing  like  a  shower-bath  in  the 
forest;  and  when  it  comes  to  you,  the  water  blinds  your 
eyes,  and  the  cold  drenching  takes  your  breath  away  as 
though  some  one  had  struck  you.  In  that  kind  of  weather 
it  must  be  dreadful  indeed  to  live  in  the  woods,  one  man 
alone  by  himself.  And  you  must  know  that,  if  the  lean 
man  feels  afraid  to  be  in  the  forest,  the  people  of  the  island 
and  the  black  boys  are  much  more  afraid  than  he.  For 
they  believe  the  woods  to  be  quite  filled  with  spirits;  some 
are  like  pigs,  and  some  are  like  flying  things ;  but  others 
(and  these  are  thought  the  most  dangerous)  come  in  the 
shape  of  beautiful  young  women  and  young  men,  beauti- 
fully dressed  in  the  island  manner,  with  fine  kilts  and  fine 
necklaces  and  crowns  of  scarlet  seeds  and  flowers.  Woe 
betide  he  or  she  who  gets  to  speak  with  one  of  these! 
They  will  be  charmed  out  of  their  wits,  and  come  home 
again  quite  silly,  and  go  mad  and  die.  So  that  the  poor 
black  boy  must  be  always  trembling  and  looking  about  for 
the  coming  of  the  women-devils. 

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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  Sometimes  the  women-devils  go  down  out  of  the  woods 
*  ^^  into  the  villages,  and  here  is  a  tale  the  lean  man  heard 
last  year.  One  of  the  islanders  was  sitting  in  his  house 
and  he  had  cooked  fish.  There  came  along  the  road  two 
beautiful  young  women,  dressed  as  I  told  you,  who  came 
into  his  house  and  asked  for  some  of  his  fish.  It  is  the 
fashion  in  the  islands  always  to  give  what  is  asked,  and 
never  to  ask  folks'  names.  So  the  man  gave  them  fish 
and  talked  to  them  in  the  island  jesting  way.  And  pres- 
ently he  asked  one  of  the  women  for  her  red  necklace, 
which  is  good  manners  and  their  way ;  he  had  given  the 
fish,  and  he  had  a  right  to  ask  for  something  back.  *'! 
will  give  it  you  by  and  by,*'  said  the  woman,  and  she  and 
her  companion  went  away ;  but  he  thought  they  were  gone 
very  suddenly,  and  the  truth  is  they  had  vanished.  The 
night  was  nearly  come,  when  the  man  heard  the  voice  of 
the  woman  crying  that  he  should  come  to  her  and  she 
would  give  the  necklace.  And  he  looked  out,  and  behold 
she  was  standing  calling  him  from  the  top  of  the  sea,  on 
which  she  stood  as  you  might  on  the  table.  At  that,  fear 
came  on  the  man ;  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  prayed,  and 
the  woman  disappeared.  It  was  known  afterwards  that 
this  was  once  a  woman  indeed,  but  should  have  died  a 
thousand  years  ago,  and  has  lived  all  that  while  as  a  devil 
in  the  woods  beside  the  spring  of  a  river.  Sau-mai-afe 
(Sow-my-affy)  is  her  name,  in  case  you  want  to  write  to- 
her. —  Ever  your  friend  Tusitala  (tale- writer), 

alias  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


38a 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 


TO  THE  Rev.  S.  J.  Whitmee 

In  this  letter  the  essential  points  of  Stevenson's  policy  for  Samoa  are 
defined  more  clearly  than  anywhere  else.  His  correspondent,  an  ex- 
perienced missionary  who  had  been  absent  from  the  islands  and  lately 
returned,  and  whom  Stevenson  describes  as  being  of  a  nature  essentially 
"  childlike  and  candid,"  had  been  induced  to  support  the  idea  of  a  one- 
man  power  as  necessary  for  putting  an  end  to  the  existing  confusion, 
and  to  suggest  the  Chief  Justice,  Mr.  Cedercrantz,  as  the  person  to  wield 
such  power.  In  the  present  letter  and  a  subsequent  conversation  Ste- 
venson was  able  to  persuade  his  correspondent  to  abandon  at  least  that 
part  of  his  proposal  which  concerned  the  Chief  Justice. 

[Vailima],  Sunday.    Better  Day,  Better  Deed, 
April  24thy  1892, 

Private  and  confidential.  » 

DEAR  MR.  whitmee,— I  have  reflected  long  and  fully 
on  your  paper,  and  at  your  kind  request  give  you  the 
benefit  of  my  last  thoughts. 

I.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  welcome  your  idea  of  one 
man.  I  fear  we  are  too  far  away  from  any  moderative  in- 
fluence ;  and  suppose  it  to  be  true  that  the  paper  is  bought, 
we  should  not  even  have  a  voice.  Could  we  be  sure  to 
get  a  Gordon  or  a  Lawrence,  ah !  very  well.  But  in  this 
out-of-the-way  place,  are  these  extreme  experiments  wise  ? 
Remember  Baker ;  with  much  that  he  has  done,  I  am  in 
full  sympathy;  and  the  man,  though  wholly  insincere,  is 
a  thousand  miles  from  ill-meaning;  and  see  to  what  ex- 
cesses he  was  forced  or  led. 

II.  But  I  willingly  admit  the  idea  is  possible  with  the 
right  man,  and  this  brings  me  with  greater  conviction  to 
my  next  point.  1  cannot  endorse,  and  I  would  rather  beg 
of  you  to  reconsider,  your  recommendation  of  the  Chief 

283 


1892 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892     Justice.     I  told  you  the  man  has  always  attracted  me,  yet 
'^^'  "^^  as  I  have  earnestly  reconsidered  the  points  against  him,  I 
find  objection  growing.  .  .  . 

But  there  is  yet  another  argument  I  have  to  lay  before 
you.  We  are  both  to  write  upon  this  subject.  Many  of 
our  opinions  coincide,  and  as  I  said  the  other  day,  on  these 
we  may  reasonably  suppose  that  we  are  not  far  wrong. 
Now  here  is  a  point  on  which  we  shall  directly  counter. 
No  doubt  but  this  will  lessen  the  combined  weight  of  our 
arguments  where  they  coincide.  And  to  avoid  this  effect, 
it  might  seem  worth  while  to  you  to  modify  or  cancel  the 
last  paragraph  of  your  article. 

III.  But  I  now  approach  what  seems  to  me  by  far  the 
most  important.  White  man  here,  white  man  there, 
Samoa  is  to  stand  or  fall  (bar  actual  seizure)  on  the  Samoan 
question.  And  upon  this  my  mind  is  now  really  made 
up.  I  do  not  believe  in  Laupepa  alone ;  I  do  not  believe 
in  Mataafa  alone.  I  know  that  their  conjunction  implies 
peace ;  I  am  persuaded  that  their  separation  means  either 
war  or  paralysis.  It  is  the  result  of  the  past,  which  we 
cannot  change,  but  which  we  must  accept  and  use  or  suffer 
by.  I  have  now  made  up  my  mind  to  do  all  that  1  may 
be  able  —  little  as  it  is— to  effect  a  reconciliation  between 
these  two  men  Laupepa  and  Mataafa ;  persuaded  as  I  am 
that  there  is  the  one  door  of  hope.  And  it  is  my  intention 
before  long  to  approach  both  in  this  sense.  Now,  from 
the  course  of  our  interview,  I  was  pleased  to  see  that  you 
were,  if  not  equally  strong  with  myself,  at  least  inclined 
to  much  the  same  opinion.  And  in  a  carefully  weighed 
paper,  such  as  that  you  read  me,  I  own  I  should  be  pleased 
to  have  this  cardinal  matter  touched  upon.  At  home  it  is 
not,  it  cannot  be,  understood :  Mataafa  is  thought  a  rebel ; 

284 


^T.  41 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

the  Germans  profit  by  the  thought  to  pursue  their  career  1892 
of  vengeance  for  Fagalii;  the  two  men  are  perpetually- 
offered  as  alternatives — they  are  no  such  thing — they  are 
complementary;  authority,  supposing  them  to  survive, 
will  be  impossible  without  both.  They  were  once  friends, 
fools  and  meddlers  set  them  at  odds,  they  must  be  friends 
again  or  have  so  much  wisdom  and  public  virtue  as  to  pre- 
tend a  friendship.  There  is  my  policy  for  Samoa.  And  1 
wish  you  would  at  least  touch  upon  that  point,  I  care  not 
how ;  because,  although  I  am  far  from  supposing  you  feel 
it  to  be  necessary  in  the  same  sense  or  to  the  same  degree 
as  I  do,  I  am  well  aware  that  no  man  knows  Samoa  but 
must  see  its  huge  advantages.  Excuse  this  long  and  tedious 
lecture,  which  I  see  I  have  to  mark  private  and  confiden- 
tial, or  I  might  get  into  deep  water,  and  believe  me,  yours 
very  truly,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  Charles  Baxter 

The  maps  herein  bespoken  do  not  adorn  the  original  edition  of 
Catriona,  but  were  executed  by  Messrs.  Bartholomew  for  the  Edin- 
burgh edition  in  a  manner  that  would  have  rejoiced  the  writer's  heart. 

[Vailima],  April  28,  i8g2. 
MY  DEAR  CHARLES,  —  I  have  just  written  the  dedica- 
tion of  David  Balfour  to  you,  and  haste  to  put  a  job  in 
your  hands.  This  is  a  map  of  the  environs  of  Edinburgh 
circa  1750.  It  must  contain  Hope  Park,  Hunter's  Bog, 
Calton  Hill,  the  Mouter  Hill,  Lang  Dykes,  Nor'  Loch, 
West  Kirk,  Village  of  Dean,  pass  down  the  water  to  Stock- 
bridge,  Silver  Mills,  the  two  mill  lakes  there,  with  a  wood 
on  the  south  side  of  the  south  one  which  I  saw  marked  on 
a  plan  in  the  British  Museum,  Broughton,  Picardy,  Leith 

285 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  Walk,  Leith,  Pilrig,  Lochend,  Figgate  Whins.  And  I 
^^'  ^^  would  like  a  piece  in  a  corner,  giving  for  the  same  period 
Figgate  Whins,  Musselburgh,  Inveresk,  Prestonpans,  bat- 
tlefield of  Gladsmuir,  Cockenzie,  Gullane — which  I  spell 
Gillane— Fidra,  Dirleton,  North  Berwick  Law,  Whitekirk, 
Tantallon  Castle  and  Castleton,  Scougal  and  Auldhame, 
the  Bass,  the  Glenteithy  rocks,  Satan's  Bush,  Wildfire 
rocks,  and,  if  possible,  the  May.  If  need  were,  I  would  not 
stick  at  two  maps.  If  there  is  but  one,  say.  Plan  to  illus- 
trate David  Balfour's  adventures  in  the  Lothians,  If  two, 
call  the  first  Plan  to  illustrate  David  Balfour's  adventures 
about  the  city  of  Edinburgh,  and  the  second ^  Plan  to  illus- 
trate David  Balfour's  adventures  in  East  Lothian.  I  sup- 
pose there  must  be  a  map-maker  of  some  taste  in  Edinburgh ; 
I  wish  few  other  names  in,  but  what  I  have  given,  as  far 
as  possible.  As  soon  as  may  be  I  will  let  you  have  the 
text,  when  you  might  even  find  some  amusement  in  seeing, 
that  the  maps  fill  the  bill.  If  your  map-maker  be  a  poor 
creature,  plainness  is  best ;  if  he  were  a  fellow  of  some 
genuine  go,  he  might  give  it  a  little  of  the  bird*s-eye 
quality.  I  leave  this  to  your  good  taste.  If  I  have  time 
I  will  copy  the  dedication  to  go  herewith ;  I  am  pleased 
with  it.  The  first  map  (suppose  we  take  two),  would 
go  in  at  the  beginning,  the  second  at  Chapter  XI.  The 
topography  is  very  much  worked  into  the  story,  and  I  have 
alluded  in  the  dedication  to  our  common  fancy  for  explor- 
ing Auld  Reekie. 

The  list  of  books  came  duly,  for  which  many  thanks. 
I  am  plunged  to  the  nostrils  in  various  business.— Yours 
ever,  R.  L.  S. 


286 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 


To  Miss  Boodle 

Samoa  and  the  Samoans  for  children,  continued  after  an  eight  months' 
pause. 

Vailima  Plantation,  Samoan  Islands, 
August  14th,  i8g2, 
MY  DEAR  MISS  BOODLE,  —  The  lean  man  is  exceedingly- 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  offers  his  apologies  to  the  little 
girls  in  the  cellar  just  above.  If  they  will  be  so  good  as 
to  knock  three  times  upon  the  floor,  he  will  hear  it  on  the 
other  side  of  his  floor,  and  will  understand  that  he  is  for- 
given. I  believe  I  got  you  and  the  children — or  rather  left 
you  and  the  children  —  still  on  the  road  to  the  lean  man's 
house.  When  you  get  up  there  a  great  part  of  the  forest 
has  been  cleared  away.  It  comes  back  again  pretty  quick, 
though  not  quite  so  high  ;  but  everywhere,  except  where 
the  weeders  have  been  kept  busy,  young  trees  have 
sprouted  up,  and  the  cattle  and  the  horses  cannot  be  seen 
as  they  feed.  In  this  clearing  there  are  two  or  three 
houses  scattered  about,  and  between  the  two  biggest  I 
think  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  would  first  notice  a  sort 
of  thing  like  a  gridiron  on  legs  made  of  logs  and  wood. 
Sometimes  it  has  a  flag  flying  on  it  made  of  rags  of  old 
clothes.  It  is  a  fort  (so  I  am  told)  built  by  the  person 
here  who  would  be  much  the  most  interesting  to  the  girls 
in  the  cellar.  This  is  a  young  gentleman  of  eleven  years 
of  age  answering  to  the  name  of  Austin.  It  was  after  read- 
ing a  book  about  the  Red  Indians  that  he  thought  it  more 
prudent  to  create  this  place  of  strength .  As  the  Red  Indians 
are  in  North  America,  and  this  fort  seems  to  me  a  very 
useless  kind  of  building,  1  am  anxious  to  hope  that  the 

287 


1892 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  two  may  never  be  brought  together.  When  Austin  is  not 
^  '  ^^  engaged  in  building  forts,  nor  on  his  lessons,  which  are 
just  as  annoying  to  him  as  other  children's  lessons  are 
to  them,  he  walks  sometimes  in  the  bush,  and  if  anybody 
is  with  him,  talks  all  the  time.  When  he  is  alone  I  don't 
think  he  says  anything,  and  I  dare  say  he  feels  very  lonely 
and  frightened,  just  as  the  lean  man  does,  at  the  queer 
noises  and  the  endless  lines  of  the  trees.  He  finds  the 
strangest  kinds  of  seeds,  some  of  them  bright  coloured  like 
lollipops,  or  really  like  precious  stones ;  some  of  them  in 
odd  cases  like  tobacco-pouches.  He  finds  and  collects  all 
kinds  of  little  shells  with  which  the  whole  ground  is  scat- 
tered, and  which,  though  they  are  the  shells  of  land  ani- 
mals like  our  snails,  are  nearly  of  as  many  shapes  and 
colours  as  the  shells  on  our  sea-beaches.  In  the  streams 
that  come  running  down  out  of  the  mountains,  and  which 
are  all  as  clear  and  bright  as  mirror  glass,  he  sees  eels  and 
little  bright  fish  that  sometimes  jump  together  out  of  the 
surface  of  the  brook  in  a  little  knot  of  silver,  and  fresh- 
water prawns  which  lie  close  under  the  stones,  and  can 
be  seen  looking  up  at  him  with  eyes  of  the  colour  of  a 
jewel.  He  sees  all  kinds  of  beautiful  birds,  some  of  them 
blue  and  white,  some  of  them  blue  and  white  and  red,  and 
some  of  them  coloured  like  our  pigeons  at  home,  and  these 
last  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  may  like  to  know  live  al- 
most entirely  on  nutmegs  as  they  fall  ripe  off  the  trees. 
Another  little  bird  he  may  sometimes  see,  as  the  lean  man 
saw  him  only  this  morning,  a  little  fellow  not  so  big  as  a 
man's  hand,  exquisitely  neat,  of  a  pretty  bronze  black  like 
ladies'  shoes,  and  who  sticks  up  behind  him  (much  as  a 
peacock  does)  his  little  tail  shaped  and  fluted  like  a  scallop 
shell. 

qSS 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

Here  are  a  lot  of  curious  and  interesting  things  that  1892 
Austin  sees  round  him  every  day ;  and  when  I  was  a  child  ^^'  ^^ 
at  home  in  the  old  country  I  used  to  play  and  pretend  to 
myself  that  I  saw  things  of  the  same  kind.  That  the 
rooms  were  full  of  orange  and  nutmeg  trees,  and  the  cold 
town  gardens  outside  the  windows  were  alive  with  parrots 
and  with  lions.  What  do  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  think 
that  Austin  does  ?  He  makes  believe  just  the  other  way : 
he  pretends  that  the  strange  great  trees  with  their  broad 
leaves  and  slab-sided  roots  are  European  oaks ;  and  the 
places  on  the  road  up  (where  you  and  I  and  the  little  girls 
in  the  cellar  have  already  gone)  he  calls  by  old-fashioned, 
far-away  European  names,  just  as  if  you  were  to  call  the 
cellar  stair  and  the  corner  of  the  next  street — if  you  could 
only  manage  to  pronounce  the  names — Upolu  and  Savaii. 
And  so  it  is  with  all  of  us,  with  Austin  and  the  lean  man 
and  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar ;  wherever  we  are  it  is  but 
a  stage  on  the  way  to  somewhere  else,  and  whatever  we 
do,  however  well  we  do  it,  it  is  only  a  preparation  to  do 
something  else  that  shall  be  different. 

But  you  must  not  suppose  that  Austin  does  nothing  but 
build  forts  and  walk  among  the  woods  and  swim  in  the  riv- 
ers. On  the  contrary,  he  is  sometimes  a  very  busy  and  use- 
ful fellow;  and  I  think  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  would  have 
admired  him  very  nearly  as  much  as  he  admired  himself 
if  they  had  seen  him  setting  off  on  horseback  with  his  hand 
on  his  hip  and  his  pockets  full  of  letters  and  orders,  at  the 
head  of  quite  a  procession  of  huge  white  cart-horses  with 
pack-saddles,  and  big  brown  native  men  with  nothing  on 
but  gaudy  kilts.  Mighty  well  he  managed  all  his  commis- 
sions ;  and  those  who  saw  him  ordering  and  eating  his  sin- 
gle-handed luncheon  in  the  queer  little  Chinese  restaurant 

289 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  on  the  beach  declared  he  looked  as  if  the  place,  and  the 
^^*  "^^  town,  and  the  whole  archipelago  belonged  to  him.  But  I 
am  not  going  to  let  you  suppose  that  this  great  gentleman 
at  the  head  of  all  his  horses  and  his  men,  like  the  King  of 
France  in  the  old  rhyme,  would  be  thought  much  of  a 
dandy  on  the  streets  of  London.  On  the  contrary,  if  he 
could  be  seen  there  with  his  dirty  white  cap,  and  his  faded 
purple  shirt,  and  his  little  brown  breeks  that  do  not  reach 
his  knees,  and  the  bare  shanks  below,  and  the  bare  feet 
stuck  in  the  stirrup  leathers,  for  he  is  not  quite  long  enough 
to  reach  the  irons,  I  am  afraid  the  little  boys  and  girls  in 
your  part  of  the  town  might  feel  very  much  inclined  to 
give  him  a  penny  in  charity.  So  you  see  that  a  very, 
very  big  man  in  one  place  might  seem  very  small  potatoes 
in  another,  just  as  the  king's  palace  here  (of  which  I  told 
you  in  my  last)  would  be  thought  rather  a  poor  place  of 
residence  by  a  Surrey  gipsy.  And  if  you  come  to  that, 
even  the  lean  man  himself,  who  is  no  end  of  an  important 
person,  if  he  were  picked  up  from  the  chair  where  he  is 
now  sitting,  and  slung  down,  feet  foremost,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Charing  Cross,  would  probably  have  to  escape 
into  the  nearest  shop,  of  take  the  consequences  of  being 
mobbed.  And  the  ladies  of  his  family,  who  are  very 
pretty  ladies,  and  think  themselves  uncommonly  well- 
dressed  for  Samoa,  would  (if  the  same  thing  were  done  to 
them)  be  extremely  glad  to  get  into  a  cab. 

I  write  to  you  by  the  hands  of  another,  because  I  am 
threatened  again  with  scrivener's  cramp.  My  health  is 
beyond  reproach ;  I  wish  1  could  say  as  much  for  my  wife's, 
which  is  far  from  the  thing.  Give  us  some  news  of  yours, 
and  even  when  none  of  us  write,  do  not  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  we  are  forgetful  of  our  old  gamekeeper.   Our 

290 


^T.  41 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

prettiest  walk,  an  alley  of  really  beautiful  green  sward  189* 
which  leads  through  Fanny's  garden  to  the  river  and  the 
bridge  and  the  beginning  of  the  high  woods  on  the  moun- 
tain-side, where  the  Tapu  a  fafine  (or  spirit  of  the  land) 
has  her  dwelling,  and  the  work-boys  fear  to  go  alone,  is 
called  by  a  name  that  I  think  our  gamekeeper  has  heard 
before  —  Adelaide  Road. 

With  much  love  from  all  of  us  to  yourself,  and  all  good 
wishes  for  your  future,  and  the  future  of  the  children  in 
the  cellar,  believe  me  your  affectionate  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  THE  Children  in  the  Cellar 

This  time  the  children  in  the  Kilburn  cellar  are  addressed  direct,  with 
only  a  brief  word  at  the  end  to  their  instructress. 

Vailima  Plantation,  Samoan  Islands, 
September  4th  t  1892, 
dear  children  in  the  cellar,— I  told  you  before 
something  of  the  black  boys  who  come  here  for  work  on 
the  plantations,  and  some  of  whom  run  away  and  live  a 
wild  life  in  the  forests  of  the  islands.  Now  1  want  to  tell 
you  of  one  who  lived  in  the  house  of  the  lean  man.  Like 
the  rest  of  them  here,  he  is  a  little  fellow,  and  when  he 
goes  about  in  old,  battered,  cheap  European  clothes  looks 
very  small  and  shabby.  When  first  he  came  he  was  as  lean 
as  a  tobacco-pipe,  and  his  smile  (like  that  of  almost  all  the 
others)  was  the  sort  that  makes  you  half  wish  to  smile 
yourself,  and  half  wish  to  cry.  However,  the  boys  in  the 
kitchen  took  him  in  hand  and  fed  him  up.  They  would 
set  him  down  alone  to  table  and  wait  upon  him  till  he  had 
his  fill,  which  was  a  good  long  time  to  wait ;  and  the  first 

291 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  thing  we  noticed  was  that  his  little  stomach  began  to  stick 
*  ^^  out  like  a  pigeon's  breast ;  and  then  the  food  got  a  little 
wider  spread  and  he  started  little  calves  to  his  legs ;  and  last 
of  all  he  began  to  get  quite  saucy  and  impudent,  so  that 
we  could  know  what  sort  of  a  fellow  he  really  was  when 
he  was  no  longer  afraid  of  being  thrashed.  He  is  really 
what  you  ought  to  call  a  young  man,  though  I  suppose 
nobody  in  the  whole  wide  world  has  any  idea  of  his  age ; 
and,  as  far  as  his  behaviour  goes,  you  can  only  think  of 
him  as  a  big  little  child  with  a  good  deal  of  sense.  When 
Austin  built  his  fort  against  the  Indians,  Arick  (for  that 
is  the  black  boy's  name)  liked  nothing  so  much  as  to  help 
him.  And  this  is  very  funny,  when  you  think  that  of  all 
the  dangerous  savages  in  this  island  Arick  is  one  of  the 
most  dangerous.  The  other  day,  besides,  he  made  Austin 
a  musical  instrument  of  the  sort  they  use  in  his  own  coun- 
try, a  harp  with  only  one  string.  He  took  a  stick  about 
three  feet  long,  and  perhaps  four  inches  round.  The  under 
side  he  hollowed  out  in  a  deep  trench  to  serve  as  sound- 
ing box ;  the  two  ends  of  the  upper  side  he  made  to  curve 
upward  like  the  ends  of  a  canoe,  and  between  these  he 
stretched  the  single  string.  He  plays  upon  it  with  a 
match  or  a  little  piece  of  stick,  and  sings  to  it  songs  of  his 
own  country,  of  which  no  person  here  can  understand  a 
single  word,  and  which  are  very  likely  all  about  fighting 
with  his  enemies  in  battle,  and  killing  them,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  say  cooking  them  in  a  ground  oven  and  eating 
them  for  supper  when  the  fight  is  over. 

For  Arick  is  really  what  you  might  call  a  savage,  though 
a  savage  is  a  very  different  person  in  reality,  and  a  very 
much  nicer,  from  what  he  is  made  to  appear  in  little  books. 
He  is  the  sort  of  person  that  everybody  smiles  to,  or  makes 

292 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

faces  at,  or  gives  a  smack  to  as  he  goes  by ;  the  sort  of  '892 
person  that  all  the  girls  on  the  plantation  give  the  best  seat  ^  '  ^^ 
to,  and  help  first,  and  love  to  decorate  with  flowers  and 
ribbons,  and  yet  all  the  while  are  laughing  at  him  ;  the 
sort  of  person  who  likes  best  to  play  with  Austin,  and 
whom  Austin  perhaps  (when  he  is  allowed)  likes  best  to 
play  with.  He  is  all  grins  and  giggles,  and  little  steps  out 
of  dances,  and  little  droll  ways,  to  attract  people's  atten- 
tion and  set  them  laughing.  And  yet  when  you  come  to 
look  at  him  closer,  you  will  find  that  his  body  is  all  cov- 
ered with  scars.  This  was  when  he  was  a  child.  There 
was  a  war,  as  is  the  way  in  these  wild  islands,  between 
his  village  and  the  next,  much  as  if  there  were  war  in 
London  between  one  street  and  another;  and  all  the  chil- 
dren ran  about  playing  in  the  middle  of  the  trouble,  and  I 
dare  say  took  no  more  notice  of  the  war  than  you  children 
in  London  do  of  a  general  election.  But  sometimes,  at 
general  elections,  English  children  may  get  run  over  by 
processions  in  the  street ;  and  it  chanced  that  as  little 
Arick  was  running  about  in  the  bush,  and  very  busy 
about  his  playing,  he  ran  into  the  midst  of  the  warriors 
on  the  other  side.  These  speared  him  with  a  poisoned 
spear ;  and  his  own  people,  when  they  had  found  him  lying 
for  dead,  and  in  order  to  cure  him  of  the  poison,  cut  him 
up  with  knives  that  were  probably  made  of  fish-bones. 

This  is  a  very  savage  piece  of  child-life,  and  Arick,  for 
all  his  good-nature,  is  still  a  very  savage  person.  I  have 
told  you  how  the  black  boys  sometimes  run  away  from 
the  plantations,  and  live  behind  alone  in  the  forest,  build- 
ing little  sheds  to  protect  them  from  the  rain,  and  some- 
times planting  little  gardens  of  food,  but  for  the  most  part 
living  the  best  they  can  upon  the  nuts  of  the  trees  and 

293 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  yams  that  they  dig  with  their  hands  out  of  the  earth.  I 
'  ^^  do  not  think  there  can  be  anywhere  in  the  world  people 
more  wretched  than  these  runaways.  They  cannot  re- 
turn, for  they  would  only  return  to  be  punished.  They 
can  never  hope  to  see  again  their  own  land  or  their  own 
people — indeed,  I  do  not  know  what  they  can  hope,  but 
just  to  find  enough  yams  every  day  to  keep  them  from 
starvation.  And  in  the  wet  season  of  the  year,  which 
is  our  summer  and  your  winter,  and  the  rain  falls  day 
after  day  far  harder  and  louder  than  the  loudest  thunder- 
plump  that  ever  fell  in  England,  and  the  noon  is  some- 
times so  dark  that  the  lean  man  is  glad  to  light  his  lamp 
to  write  by,  I  can  think  of  nothing  so  dreary  as  the  state 
of  these  poor  runaway  slaves  in  the  houseless  bush.  You 
are  to  remember,  besides,  that  the  people  of  this  island 
hate  and  fear  them  because  they  are  cannibals,  sit  and  tell 
tales  of  them  about  their  lamps  at  night  in  their  own  com- 
fortable houses,  and  are  sometimes  afraid  to  lie  down  to 
sleep  if  they  think  there  is  a  lurking  black  boy  in  the 
neighbourhood.  Well,  now,  Arick  is  of  their  own  race 
and  language,  only  he  is  a  little  more  lucky  because  he 
has  not  run  away ;  and  how  do  you  think  that  he  proposed 
to  help  them?  He  asked  if  he  might  not  have  a  gun. 
*  *  What  do  you  want  with  a  gun,  Arick  ? ' '  was  asked .  And 
he  said  quite  simply,  and  with  his  nice  good-natured  smile, 
that  if  he  had  a  gun  he  would  go  up  into  the  high  bush 
and  shoot  black  boys  as  men  shoot  pigeons.  He  said  noth- 
ing about  eating  them,  nor  do  I  think  he  really  meant  to. 
1  think  all  he  wanted  was  to  clear  the  property  of  vermin 
as  gamekeepers  at  home  kill  weasels,  or  housewives  mice. 
The  other  day  he  was  sent  down  on  an  errand  to  the 
German  Firm, where  many  of  the  black  boys  live.    It  was 

394 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

very  late  when  he  came  home  on  a  bright  moonlight  night.  1892 
He  had  a  white  bandage  round  his  head,  his  eyes  shone,  ^^'  ^* 
and  he  could  scarcely  speak  for  excitement.  It  seems  some 
of  the  black  boys  who  were  his  enemies  at  home  had  at- 
tacked him,  and  one  with  a  knife.  By  his  own  account 
he  had  fought  very  well,  but  the  odds  were  heavy;  the 
man  with  the  knife  had  cut  him  both  in  the  head  and 
back,  he  had  been  struck  down,  and  if  some  of  the  black 
boys  of  his  own  side  had  not  come  to  the  rescue,  he  must 
certainly  have  been  killed.  I  am  sure  no  Christmas-box 
could  make  any  of  you  children  so  happy  as  this  fight 
made  Arick.  A  great  part  of  the  next  day  he  neglected 
his  work  to  play  upon  the  one-stringed  harp  and  sing  songs 
about  his  great  victory.  And  to-day,  when  he  is  gone 
upon  his  holiday,  he  has  announced  that  he  is  going  back  to 
the  German  Firm  to  have  another  battle  and  another  tri- 
umph. I  do  not  think  he  will  go  all  the  same,  or  I  should 
be  more  uneasy,  for  I  do  not  want  to  have  my  Arick  killed ; 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  if  he  begins  to  fight  again,  he 
will  be  likely  to  go  on  with  it  very  far.  For  I  have  seen 
him  once  when  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  an  enemy.  It 
was  one  of  our  dreadful  days  of  rain,  the  sound  of  it  like  a 
great  waterfall  or  like  a  tempest  of  wind  blowing  in  the 
forest;  and  there  came  to  our  door  two  runaway  black 
boys  seeking  work.  In  such  weather  as  that  my  enemy's 
dog  (as  Shakespeare  says)  should  have  had  a  right  to 
shelter.  But  when  Arick  saw  these  two  poor  rogues  com- 
ing with  their  empty  bellies  and  drenched  clothes,  and  one 
of  them  with  a  stolen  cutlass  in  his  hand,  through  that 
world  of  falling  water,  he  had  no  thought  of  pity  in  his 
heart.  Crouching  behind  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  veran- 
dah, which  he  held  in  his  two  hands,  his  mouth  drew  back 
into  a  strange  sort  of  smile,  his  eyes  grew  bigger  and  big- 

295 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892    ger,  and  his  whole  face  was  just  like  the  one  word  Murder 
'^^•'*'  in  big  capitals. 

Now  I  have  told  you  a  great  deal  too  much  about  poor 
Arick's  savage  nature,  and  now  I  must  tell  you  about  a 
great  amusement  he  had  the  other  day.  There  came  an 
English  ship  of  war  in  the  harbour,  and  the  officers  very 
good  naturedly  gave  an  entertainment  of  songs  and  dances 
and  a  magic-lantern,  to  which  Arick  and  Austin  were  al- 
lowed to  go.  At  the  door  of  the  hall  there  were  crowds  of 
black  boys  waiting  and  trying  to  peep  in,  the  way  children 
at  home  lie  about  and  peep  under  the  tent  of  a  circus ;  and 
you  may  be  sure  Arick  was  a  very  proud  person  when  he 
passed  them  all  by  and  entered  the  hall  with  his  ticket. 
I  wish  I  knew  what  he  thought  of  the  whole  performance ; 
but  the  housekeeper  of  the  lean  man,  who  sat  just  in 
front  of  him,  tells  me  what  seemed  to  startle  him  the  most. 
The  first  thing  was  when  two  of  the  oflficers  came  out  with 
blackened  faces  like  Christy  minstrel  boys  and  began  to 
dance.  Arick  was  sure  that  they  were  really  black  and 
his  own  people,  and  he  was  wonderfully  surprised  to  see 
them  dance  this  new  European  style  of  dance.  But  the 
great  affair  was  the  magic-lantern.  The  hall  was  made 
quite  dark,  which  was  very  little  to  Arick*s  taste.  He  sat 
there  behind  the  housekeeper,  nothing  to  be  seen  of  him 
but  eyes  and  teeth,  and  his  heart  beating  finely  in  his  little 
scarred  breast.  And  presently  there  came  out  on  the  white 
sheet  that  great  bright  eye  of  light  that  I  am  sure  all  you 
children  must  have  often  seen.  It  was  quite  new  to  Arick, 
he  had  no  idea  what  would  happen  next ;  and  in  his  fear 
and  excitement,  he  laid  hold  with  his  little  slim  black  fin- 
gers like  a  bird's  claws  on  the  neck  of  the  housekeeper  in 
front  of  him.  All  through  the  rest  of  the  show,  as  one 
picture  followed  another  on  the  white  sheet,  he  sat  there 

296 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

gasping  and  clutching  at  the  housekeeper's  neck,  and  good-  1892 
ness  knows  whether  he  were  more  pleased  or  frightened.  ^  '  ^^ 
Doubtless  it  was  a  very  fine  thing  to  see  all  these  bright 
pictures  coming  out  and  dying  away  again  one  after  an- 
other ;  but  doubtless  it  was  rather  alarming  also,  for  how 
was  it  done  ?  And  at  last,  when  there  appeared  upon  the 
screen  the  head  of  a  black  woman  (as  it  might  be  his  own 
mother  or  sister) ,  and  the  black  woman  of  a  sudden  began 
to  roll  her  eyes,  the  fear  or  the  excitement,  whichever  it 
was,  wrung  out  of  him  a  loud  shuddering  sob.  And  I  think 
we  all  ought  to  admire  his  courage  when,  after  an  evening 
spent  in  looking  on  at  such  wonderful  miracles,  he  and 
Austin  set  out  alone  through  the  forest  to  the  lean  man's 
house.  It  was  late  at  night  and  pitch  dark  when  some  of 
the  party  overtook  the  little  white  boy  and  the  big  black 
boy  marching  among  the  trees  with  their  lantern.  I  have 
told  you  the  wood  has  an  ill  name,  and  all  the  people  of 
the  island  believe  it  to  be  full  of  devils;  but  even  if  you  do 
not  believe  in  the  devils,  it  is  a  pretty  dreadful  place  to  walk 
in  by  the  moving  light  of  a  lantern,  with  nothing  about  you 
but  a  curious  whirl  of  shadows  and  the  black  night  above 
and  beyond.  But  Arick  kept  his  courage  up,  and  I  dare 
say  Austin's  too,  with  a  perpetual  chatter,  so  that  the 
people  coming  after  heard  his  voice  long  before  they  saw 
the  shining  of  the  lantern. 

My  dear  Miss  Boodle, — will  I  be  asking  too  much  that 
you  should  send  me  back  my  letters  to  the  Children,  or 
copies,  if  you  prefer ;  I  have  an  idea  that  they  may  per- 
haps help  in  time  to  make  up  a  book  on  the  South  Seas 
for  children.  I  have  addressed  the  Cellar  so  long  this  time 
that  you  must  take  this  note  for  yourself  and  excuse,  yours 
most  sincerely,  R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

297 


1893 


LETTERS  OF  R.  U  STEVENSON 


TO  Miss  Taylor 

Lady  Taylor  had  died  soon  after  the  settlement  of  the  Stevenson 
family  at  Vailima.  The  second  paragraph  refers  to  a  test  which  had 
been  set  before  an  expert  in  the  reading  of  character  by  handwriting. 

Vailima,  Samoan  Islands,  October  yth,  1892, 
MY  DEAR  IDA,  —  I  feel  very  much  the  implied  reproof  in 
yours  just  received ;  but  I  assure  you  there  is  no  fear  of 
our  forgetting  either  Una  or  yourself,  or  your  dear  mother, 
who  was  one  of  the  women  I  have  most  admired  and  loved 
in  the  whole  of  my  way  through  life.  The  truth  is  Fanny 
writes  to  nobody  and  that  I  am  on  the  whole  rather  over- 
worked. I  compose  lots  of  letters  to  lots  of  unforgotten 
friends,  but  when  it  comes  to  taking  the  pen  between  my 
fingers  there  are  many  impediments.  Hence  it  comes  that 
1  am  now  writing  to  you  by  an  amanuensis,  at  which  I  know 
you  will  be  very  angry.  Well,  it  was  Hobson's  choice.  A 
little  while  ago  I  had  very  bad  threatenings  of  scrivener's 
cramp ;  and  if  Belle  (Fanny's  daughter,  of  whom  you  re- 
member to  have  heard)  had  not  taken  up  the  pen  for  my 
correspondence,  I  doubt  you  would  never  have  heard  from 
me  again  except  in  the  way  of  books.  I  wish  you  and 
Una  would  be  so  good  as  to  write  to  us  now  and  then  even 
without  encouragement.  An  unsolicited  letter  would  be 
almost  certain  (sooner  or  later,  depending  on  the  activity 
of  the  conscience)  to  produce  some  sort  of  an  apology  for 
an  answer. 

All  this  upon  one  condition:  that  you  send  me  your 
friend's  description  of  my  looks,  age  and  character.  The 
character  of  my  work  I  am  not  so  careful  about.  But  did 
you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  tantalising  as  for  you  to  tell 

298 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

me  the  story  and  not  send  me  your  notes  ?  I  expect  it  1892 
was  a  device  to  extract  an  answer ;  and,  as  you  see,  it  has  *  ^^ 
succeeded.  Let  me  suggest  (if  your  friend  be  handy)  that 
the  present  letter  would  be  a  very  delicate  test.  It  is  in 
one  person's  handwriting,  it  expresses  the  ideas  of  an- 
other, of  the  writer  herself  you  know  nothing.  I  should 
be  very  curious  to  know  what  the  sibyl  will  make  of  such 
a  problem. 

If  you  carry  out  your  design  of  settling  in  London  you 
must  be  sure  and  let  us  have  the  new  address.  I  swear 
we  shall  write  some  time — and  if  the  interval  be  long  you 
must  just  take  it  on  your  own  head  for  prophesying  hor- 
rors. You  remember  how  you  always  said  we  were  but 
an  encampment  of  Bedouins,  and  that  you  would  awake 
some  morning  to  find  us  fled  for  ever.  Nothing  unsettled 
me  more  than  these  ill-judged  remarks.  I  was  doing  my 
best  to  be  a  sedentary  semi-respectable  man  in  a  suburban 
villa ;  and  you  were  always  shaking  your  head  at  me  and 
assuring  me  (what  I  knew  to  be  partly  true)  that  it  was 
all  a  farce.  Even  here,  when  I  have  sunk  practically  all 
that  I  possess,  and  have  good  health  and  my  fill  of  con- 
genial fighting,  and  could  not  possibly  get  away  if  I  wanted 
ever  so — even  here  and  now  the  recollection  of  these  infi- 
del prophecies  rings  in  my  ears  like  an  invitation  to  the 
sea.     Tu  I' as  voulu ! 

I  know  you  want  some  of  our  news,  and  it  is  all  so  far 
away  that  I  know  not  when  to  begin.  We  have  a  big 
house  and  we  are  building  another — pray  God  that  we 
can  pay  for  it.  1  am  just  reminded  that  we  have  no  less 
than  eight  several  places  of  habitation  in  this  place,  which 
was  a  piece  of  uncleared  forest  some  three  years  ago.  1 
think  there  are  on  my  pay  rolls  at  the  present  moment 

299 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1892  thirteen  human  souls,  not  counting  two  washerwomen 
^^'"^^  who  come  and  go.  In  addition  to  this  I  am  at  daggers 
drawn  with  the  Government,  have  had  my  correspondence 
stopped  and  opened  by  the  Chief  Justice — it  was  corre- 
spondence with  the  so-called  Rebel  King,  — and  have  had 
boys  examined  and  threatened  with  deportation  to  betray 
the  secrets  of  my  relations  with  the  same  person.  In  ad- 
dition to  this  I  might  direct  attention  to  those  trifling  ex- 
ercises of  the  fancy,  my  literary  works,  and  I  hope  you 
won't  think  that  I  am  likely  to  suffer  from  ennui.  Nor  is 
Fanny  any  less  active.  Ill  or  well,  rain  or  shine,  a  little 
blue  indefatigable  figure  is  to  be  observed  howking  about 
certain  patches  of  garden.  She  comes  in  heated  and  be- 
mired  up  to  the  eyebrows,  late  for  every  meal.  She  has 
reached  a  sort  of  tragic  placidity.  Whenever  she  plants 
anything  new  the  boys  weed  it  up.  Whenever'  she  tries 
to  keep  anything  for  seed  the  house-boys  throw  it  away. 
And  she  has  reached  that  pitch  of  a  kind  of  noble  dejec- 
tion that  she  would  almost  say  she  did  not  mind.  Any- 
way, her  cabbages  have  succeeded.  Talolo  (our  native 
cook,  and  a  very  good  one  too)  likened  them  the  other  day 
to  the  head  of  a  German ;  and  even  this  hyperbolical  im- 
age was  grudging.  I  remember  all  the  trouble  you  had 
with  servants  at  the  Roost.  The  most  of  them  were  noth-, 
ing  to  the  trances  that  we  have  to  go  through  here  at 
times,  when  I  have  to  hold  a  bed  of  justice,  and  take  evi- 
dence which  is  never  twice  the  same,  and  decide,  practi- 
cally blindfold,  and  after  I  have  decided  have  the  accuser 
take  back  the  accusation  in  block  and  beg  for  mercy  for 
the  culprit.  Conceive  the  annoyance  of  all  this  when  you 
are  very  fond  of  both. — Your  affectionate  friend, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 
300 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

TO  Charles  Baxter 

This  correspondent  had  lately  been  on  a  tour  in  Sweden. 

[Vailima],  December  28thy  1892. 
MY  DEAR  CHARLES, —Your  really  decent  letter  to  hand. 
And  here  I  am  answering  it,  to  the  merry  note  of  the 
carpenter's  hammer,  in  an  upper  room  of  the  New  House. 
This  upper  floor  is  almost  done  now,  but  the  Grrrrrreat 
'All  below  is  still  unlined ;  it  is  all  to  be  varnished  red- 
wood. I  paid  a  big  figure  but  do  not  repent ;  the  trouble 
has  been  so  minimised,  the  work  has  been  so  workman- 
like, and  all  the  parties  have  been  so  obliging.  What  a 
pity  when  you  met  the  Buried  Majesty  of  Sweden — the 
sovereign  of  my  Cedercrantz — you  did  not  breathe  in  his 
ear  a  word  of  Samoa  ! 

O  Sovereign  of  my  Cedercrantz, 
Conceive  how  his  plump  carcase  pants 
To  leave  the  spot  he  now  is  tree'd  in, 
And  skip  with  all  the  dibbs  to  Sweden. 

O  Sovereign  of  my  Cedercrantz, 
The  lowly  plea  I  now  advantz ; 
Remove  this  man  of  light  and  leadin* 
From  us  to  more  congenial  Sweden. 

This  kind  of  thing  might  be  kept  up  a  Lapland  night. 
*'Let  us  bury  the  great  joke"  —  Shade  of  Tennyson, 
forgive ! 

I  am  glad  to  say,  you  can  scarce  receive  the  second  bill 
for  the  house  until  next  mail,  which  gives  more  room  to 
turn  round  in.    Yes,  my  rate  of  expenditure  is  hellish.    It 

301 


1892 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1893    is  funny,  it  crept  up  and  up ;  and  when  we  sat  upon  one 

^^*  ^^  vent  another  exploded.     Lloyd  and  I  grew  grey  over  the 

monthly  returns;   but  every  damned  month,  there  is  a 

new  extra.    However,  we  always  hope  the  next  will  prove 

less  recalcitrant;  in  which  faith  we  advance  trembling. 

The  desiderated  advertisement,  I  think  I  have  told  you, 
was  mighty  near  supplied :  that  is,  if  deportation  would 
suit  your  view:  the  ship  was  actually  sought  to  be  hired. 
Yes,  it  would  have  been  an  advertisement,  and  rather 
a  lark,  and  yet  a  blooming  nuisance.  For  my  part,  I  shall 
try  to  do  without. 

No  one  has  thought  fit  to  send  me  Atalanta  * ;  and  I  have 
no  proof  at  all  of  D.  Balfour^  which  is  far  more  serious. 
How  about  the  D.  B,  map  ?  As  soon  as  there  is  a  proof  it 
were  well  I  should  see  it  to  accord  the  text  thereto  —  or 
t'  other  way  about  if  needs  must.  Remember  I  had  to  go 
much  on  memory  in  writing  that  work.  Did  you  observe 
the  dedication  ?  and  how  did  you  like  it  ?  If  it  don't  suit 
you,  I  am  to  try  my  hand  again. — Yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 

To  Charles  Baxter 

Telling  hew  the  projected  tale,  The  Pearl  Fisher,  had  been  cut  down 
and  in  its  new  form  was  to  be  called  The  Schooner  Farallone  (after- 
wards changed  to  The  Ebb  Tide). 

[Vailima,  Fehruaty,  189^.] 
MY  DEAR  CHARLES,  r— I  have  had  the  influenza,  as  I  be- 
lieve you  know :  this  has  been  followed  by  two  goes  of  my 
old  friend  Bloodie  Jacke,  and  I  have  had  fefe — the  island 
complaint — for  the  second  time  in  two  months.     All  this, 

'The  magazine  in  which  Catriona  first  appeared  in  this  country, 
under  the  title  David  Balfour. 

302 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

and  the  fact  that  both  my  womenkind  require  to  see  a  doc-  1893 
tor :  and  some  wish  to  see  Lord  Jersey  before  he  goes  *  ^^ 
home:  all  send  me  off  on  a  month's  holiday  to  Sydney. 
I  may  get  my  mail :  or  I  may  not :  depends  on  freight, 
weather,  and  the  captain's  good-nature — he  is  one  of  those 
who  most  religiously  fear  Apia  harbour :  it  is  quite  a  su- 
perstition with  American  captains.  (Odd  note:  Ameri- 
can sailors,  who  make  British  hair  grey  by  the  way  they 
carry  canvas,  appear  to  be  actually  more  nervous  when  it 
comes  to  coast  and  harbour  work.)  This  is  the  only  holi- 
day 1  have  had  for  more  than  2  years ;  I  dare  say  it  will 
be  as  long  again  before  I  take  another.  And  I  am  going 
to  spend  a  lot  of  money.     Ahem  ! 

On  the  other  hand,  you  can  prepare  to  dispose  of  the 
serial  rights  of  The  Schooner  Farallone:  a  most  grim  and 
gloomy  tale.  It  will  run  to  something  between  Jekyll  and 
Hyde  and  Treasure  Island,  I  will  not  commit  myself  be- 
yond this,  but  I  anticipate  from  65  to  70,000  words,  could 
almost  pledge  myself  not  shorter  than  65,000,  but  won't. 
The  tale  can  be  sent  as  soon  as  you  have  made  arrange- 
ments; I  hope  to  finish  it  in  a  month;  six  weeks,  bar  the 
worst  accidents,  for  certain.  I  should  say  this  is  the  butt 
end  of  what  was  once  The  Pearl  Fisher.  There  is  a  pecu- 
liarity about  this  tale  in  its  new  form :  it  ends  with  a  con- 
version I  We  have  been  tempted  rather  to  call  it  The 
Schooner  Farallone:  a  tract  by  R,  L,  S.  and  L,  O.  It 
would  make  a  boss  tract;  the  three  main  characters — and 
there  are  only  four  —  are  barats,  insurance  frauds,  thieves 
and  would-be  murderers;  so  the  company  's  good.  Devil 
a  woman  there,  by  good  luck;  so  it 's  **pure."  *T  is  a 
most — what  *s  the  expression? — unconventional  work. 

R.  L.  S 
303 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


To  James  S.  Stevenson 

This  IS  addressed  to  a  very  remote  cousin  in  quest  of  information 
about  the  origins  of  the  family. 

Vailima,  Samoa,  June  ipth,  189^, 

DEAR  MR.  STEVENSON,  —  I  am  reminded  by  coming 
across  some  record  of  relations  between  my  grandfather, 
Robert  Stevenson,  C.E.,  Edinburgh,  and  Robert  Stevenson, 
Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Royal  Exchange,  Glasgow,  and  1 
presume  a  son  of  Hugh  Stevenson  who  died  in  Tobago 
1 6th  April  1774,  that  I  have  not  yet  consulted  my  cousins 
in  Glasgow. 

1  am  engaged  in  writing  a  Life  of  my  grandfather,  my 
uncle  Alan,  and  my  father,  Thomas,  and  I  find  almost  in- 
conceivable difficulty  in  placing  and  understanding  their 
(and  my)  descent. 

Might  I  ask  if  you  have  any  material  to  go  upon  ?  The 
smallest  note  would  be  like  found  gold  to  me ;  and  an  old 
letter  invaluable. 

I  have  not  got  beyond  James  Stevenson  and  Jean  Keir 
his  spouse,  to  whom  Robert  the  First  (?)  was  born  in  1675. 
Could  you  get  me  further  back  ?  Have  you  any  old 
notes  of  the  trouble  in  the  West  Indian  business  which 
took  Hugh  and  Alan  to  their  deaths  ?  How  had  they  ac- 
quired so  considerable  a  business  at  an  age  so  early  ? 
You  see  how  the  queries  pour  from  me;  but  I  will  ask 
nothing  more  in  words.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  any  infor- 
mation, however  insignificant,  as  to  our  common  forebears, 
will  be  very  gratefully  received.  In  case  you  should  have 
any  original  documents,  it  would  be  better  to  have  copies 
sent  to  me  in  this  outlandish  place,  for  the  expense  of 

304 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

which  1  will  account  to  you  as  soon  as  you  let  me  know    1893 
the  amount,  and  it  will  be  wise  to  register  your  letter.  '^^'  ^^ 
—  Believe  me,  in  the  old,  honoured  Scottish  phrase,  your 
affectionate  cousin,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


To  James  S.  Stevenson 

Vailima  Plantation,  Island  of  Upolu, 
Samoa,  Sept.  4thy  189^. 

MY  DEAR  cousin,  —  I  thank  you  cordially  for  your 
kinsmanlike  reply  to  my  appeal.  Already  the  notes  from 
the  family  Bible  have  spared  me  one  blunder,  which  I  had 
from  some  notes  in  my  grandfather*s  own  hand ;  and  now, 
like  the  daughters  of  the  horseleech,  my  voice  is  raised 
again  to  put  you  to  more  trouble.  '*  Nether  Carsewell, 
Neilston,"  I  read.  My  knowledge  of  Scotland  is  fairly 
wide,  but  it  does  not  include  Neilston. 

However,  I  find  by  the  (original)  Statistical  Account,  it 
is  a  parish  in  Renfrew.  Do  you  know  anything  of  it? 
Have  you  identified  Nether  Carsewell  ?  Have  the  Neilston 
parish  registers  been  searched  ?  I  see  whole  vistas  of 
questions  arising,  and  here  am  1  in  Samoa ! 

I  shall  write  by  this  mail  to  my  lawyer  to  have  the 
records  searched,  and  to  my  mother  to  go  and  inquire  in 
the  parish  itself.  But  perhaps  you  may  have  some  fur- 
ther information,  and  if  so,  I  should  be  glad  of  it.  If  you 
have  not,  pray  do  not  trouble  to  answer.  As  to  your 
father's  blunder  of  **  Stevenson  of  Cauldwell,**  it  is  now 
explained :  Carse^eW  may  have  been  confounded  with 
Cauldwell :  and  it  seems  likely  our  man  may  have  been 
a  tenant  or  retainer  of  Mure  of  Cauldwell,  a  very  ancient 

30s 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1893    and  honourable  family,  who  seems  to  have  been  at  least 
^^'  ^^  a  neighbouring  laird  to  the  parish  of  Neilston.     I  was  just 
about  to  close  this,  when  I  observed  again  your  obliging 
offer  of  service,  and  I  take  you  promptly  at  your  word. 

Do  you  think  that  you  or  your  son  could  find  a  day  to 
visit  Neilston  and  try  to  identify  Nether  Carsewell,  find 
what  size  of  a  farm  it  is,  to  whom  it  belonged,  etc.?  I 
shall  be  very  much  obliged.  1  am  pleased  indeed  to  learn 
some  of  my  books  have  given  pleasure  to  your  family ;  and 
with  all  good  wishes,  I  remain,  your  affectionate  cousin, 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

The  registers  I  shall  have  seen  to,  through  my  lawyer. 


To  Charles  Baxter 

Finished  on  the  way  to  Honolulu  for  a  health  change  which  turned 
out  unfortunate.  With  the  help  of  Mr.  J.  H.  Stevenson  and  other  cor- 
respondents he  had  now  been  able  (regretfully  giving  up  the  possibility 
of  a  Macgregor  lineage)  to  identify  his  forebears  as  having  about  1670 
been  tenant  farmers  at  Nether  Carsewell  in  Renfrewshire.  The  Ger- 
man government  at  home  had  taken  his  Footnote  to  History  much  less 
kindly  than  his  German  neighbours  on  the  spot,  and  the  Tauchnitz 
edition  had  been  confiscated  and  destroyed  and  its  publisher  fined. 

[Vailima,  and  s.s.  **  Mariposa,*' 
September y  i8g^.\ 
MY  DEAR  CHARLES,— -Here  is  a  job  for  you.     It  ap- 
pears   that   about    1665,   or  earlier,    James    Stevenson 

Nether-Carsewell,  parish  of  Neilston,  flourished. 

Will  you  kindly  send  an  able-bodied  reader  to  compulse 
the  parish  registers  of  Neilston,  if  they  exist  or  go  back  as 

306 


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LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

far  ?  Also  could  any  trace  be  found  through  Nether-  1893 
Carsewell  ?  I  expect  it  to  have  belonged  to  Mure  of  ^^'  ^^ 
Cauldwell.  If  this  be  so,  might  not  the  Cauldwell  charter 
chest  contain  some  references  to  their  Stevenson  tenantry  ? 
Perpend  upon  it.  But  clap  me  on  the  judicious,  able- 
bodied  reader  on  the  spot.  Can  I  really  have  found  the 
tap-root  of  my  illustrious  ancestry  at  last  ?  Souls  of  my 
fathers  1  What  a  giggle-iggle-orious  moment !  I  have 
drawn  on  you  for  ;^400.  Also  I  have  written  to  Tauchnitz 
announcing  I  should  bear  one-half  part  of  his  fines  and 
expenses,  amounting  to  ^62,  i05.  The  ;^400  includes 
£160  which  I  have  laid  out  here  in  land.  Vanu  Manutagi 
— the  vale  of  crying  birds  (the  wild  dove)  —  is  now  mine: 
it  was  Fanny's  wish  and  she  is  to  buy  it  from  me  when 
she  has  made  that  much  money. 

Will  you  please  order  from  me  through  your  bookseller 
the  Mdbinogion  of  Lady  Charlotte. Guest — if  that  be  her 
name  —  and  the  original  of  Cook's  voyages  lately  pub- 
lished ?  Also,  I  see  announced  a  map  of  the  Great  North 
Road :  you  might  see  what  it  is  like :  if  it  is  highly  de- 
tailed, or  has  any  posting  information,  I  should  like  it. 

This  is  being  finished  on  board  the  Mariposa  going  north. 
I  am  making  the  run  to  Honolulu  and  back  for  health's 
sake.    No  inclination  to  write  more. — As  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 


307 


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LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


To  Sidney  Colvin 

This  was  the  last  letter  I  received  from  my  friend.  On  the  morning 
of  his  death  the  following  month  he  spoke  of  being  behindhand  with 
his  December  letter  and  of  his  intention  to  write  it  next  day. 

[Vailima,  November,  1894.] 
DEAR  COLVIN, — Saturday  there  was  a  ball  to  the  ship, 
and  on  Sunday  Gurr  had  a  child  to  be  baptised.  Belle 
was  to  be  godmother  and  had  to  be  got  down ;  which  was 
impossible,  as  the  jester  Euclid  says.  However,  we  had 
four  men  of  very  different  heights  take  the  poles  of  a  sort  of 
bier  and  carry  her  shoulder  high  down  the  road,  till  we  met 
a  trap.  On  the  return  journey  on  Sunday,  they  were  led 
by  Austin  playing  (?)  on  a  bugle,  and  you  have  no  idea 
how  picturesque  a  business  it  was;  the  four  half-naked 
bearers,  the  cane  lounge  at  that  height  from  the  ground, 
and  Belle  in  black  and  pretty  pale  reclining  very  like  a 
dead  warrior  of  yore.  However  she  wasn't  dead  yet.  All 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  we  hung  about  and  had  consulta- 
tions about  the  baptism.  Just  as  we  went  in  to  dinner, 
I  saw  the  moon  rise  accurately  full,  looking  five  times 
greater  than  nature,  and  the  face  that  we  try  to  decipher 
in  its  silver  disk  wearing  an  obliterated  but  benignant 
expression.  The  ball  followed;  blue-jackets  and  officers 
danced  indiscriminately,  after  their  pleasant  fashion ;  and 
Belle,  who  lay  in  the  hotel  verandah,  and  held  a  sort  of 
reception  all  night,  had  her  longest  visit  from  one  of  the 
blue- jackets,  her  partner  in  the  last  ball.  About  one  on 
the  Sunday  morning  all  was  over,  and  we  went  to  bed — 
I,  alas!  only  to  get  up  again,  my  room  being  in  the  ve- 
randah, where  a  certain  solemnly  absurd  family  conclave 

308 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

(all  drunk)  was  being  held  until  (1  suppose)  three.  By  six,  1894 
1  was  awake,  and  went  on  the  verandah.  On  the  east  the  ^  '  ^^ 
dawn  had  broken,  cold  and  pink  and  rust  colour,  and  the 
marshes  were  all  smoking  whitely  and  blowing  into  the 
bay  like  smoke,  but  on  the  west,  all  was  golden.  The 
street  was  empty,  and  right  over  it  hung  the  setting  moon, 
accurately  round,  yellow  as  an  apricot,  but  slumberous, 
with  an  effect  of  afternoon  you  would  not  believe  if  you 
had  not  seen  it.  Then  followed  a  couple  of  hours  on  the 
verandah  I  would  be  glad  to  forget.  By  seven  X.  Y.  had 
joined  me,  as  drunk  as  they  make  'em.  As  he  sat  and 
talked  to  me,  he  smelt  of  the  charnel  house,  methought. 
He  looked  so  old  (he  is  one  month  my  senior) ;  he  spoke  so 
silly ;  his  poor  leg  is  again  covered  with  boils,  which  will 
spell  death  to  him;  and — enough.  That  interview  has 
made  me  a  teetotaller.  O,  it  is  bad  to  grow  old.  For  me,  it 
is  practically  hell.  1  do  not  like  the  consolations  of  age. 
I  was  born  a  young  man;  I  have  continued  so;  and  before 
I  end,  a  pantaloon,  a  driveller — enough  again.  But  I  don't 
enjoy  getting  elderly.  Belle  and  I  got  home  about  three 
in  the  afternoon,  she  having  in  the  meantime  renounced 
all  that  makes  life  worth  living  in  the  name  of  little  Miss 
Gurr,  and  1  seriously  reflecting  on  renouncing  the  kindly 
bowl  in  earnest!  Presently  after  arrived  the  news  of 
Margery  Ide  (the  C.  J.'s  daughter)  being  seriously  ill, 
alarmingly  ill.  Fanny  wanted  to  go  down;  it  was  a  diffi- 
cult choice ;  she  was  not  fit  for  it ;  on  the  other  hand  (and 
by  all  accounts)  the  patient  would  die  if  she  did  not  get  bet- 
ter nursing.  So  we  made  up  our  own  minds,  and  F.  and  I 
set  out  about  dusk,  came  to  the  C.  J.'s  in  the  middle  of 
dinner,  and  announced  our  errand.  I  am  glad  to  say 
the  C.  J.  received  her  very  willingly;  and  I  came  home 

309 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

1894    again,  leaving  her  behind,  where  she  was  certainly  much 
^■^•"^^  wanted. 

New,  4th, — You  ask  about  St,  Ives,  No,  there  is  no 
Burford  Bridge  in  it,  and  no  Boney.  He  is  a  squire  of 
dames,  and  there  are  petticoats  in  the  story,  and  damned 
bad  ones  too,  and  it  is  of  a  tolerable  length,  a  hundred 
thousand,  I  believe,  at  least.  Also,  since  you  are  curi- 
ous on  the  point,  St.  Ives  learned  his  English  from  a  Mr. 
Vicary,  an  English  lawyer,  a  prisoner  of  France.  He  must 
have  had  a  fine  gift  of  languages ! 

Things  are  going  on  here  in  their  usual  gently  disheart- 
ening gait.  The  Treaty  Officials  are  both  good  fellows 
whom  I  can't  help  liking,  but  who  will  never  make  a  hand 
of  Samoa.— Yours  ever,  R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

To  Professor  Meiklejohn 

Congratulating  an  old  friend  of  Savile  Club  days  (see  above,  p.  135) 
on  his  sailor  son. 

Vailima,  Samoa,  Nov,  6th,  1894. 
MY  DEAR  MEIKLEJOHN,  — Greeting!  This  is  but  a 
word  to  say  how  much  we  felicitate  ourselves  on  having 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Hughie.  He  is  having  a  famous 
good  chance  on  board  the  Curagoa,  which  is  the  best  ship 
I  have  ever  seen.  And  as  for  himself,  he  is  a  most  engag- 
ing boy,  of  whom  you  may  very  well  be  proud,  and  I  have 
no  mortal  manner  of  doubt  but  what  you  are.  He  comes 
up  here  very  often,  where  he  is  a  great  favourite  with 
my  ladies,  and  sings  me  **the  melancholy  airs  of  my  na- 
tive land  "  with  much  acceptancy.  His  name  has  recently 
become  changed  in  Vailima.    Beginning  with  the  courte- 

310 


LIFE  IN  SAMOA 

ous  "Mr.  Meiklejohn,*'  it  shaded  off  into  the  familiar    1894 
"Hughie/*  and  finally  degenerated  into  **the  Whitrett." »  ^'^'  ^^ 
1  hear  good  reports  of  him  aboard  and  ashore,  and  1  scarce 
need  to  add  my  own  testimony. 

Hughie  tells  me  you  have  gone  into  the  publishing  busi- 
ness, whereat  1  was  much  shocked.  My  own  affairs  with 
publishers  are  now  in  the  most  flourishing  state,  owing  to 
my  ingenuity  in  leaving  them  to  be  dealt  with  by  a  Scotch 
Writer  to  the  Signet.  It  has  produced  revolutions  in  the 
book  trade  and  my  banking  account.  I  tackled  the  Whit- 
rett  severely  on  a  grammar  you  had  published,  which  I  had 
not  seen  and  condemned  out  of  hand  and  in  the  broadest 
Lallan.  I  even  condescended  on  the  part  of  that  grammar 
which  1  thought  to  be  the  worst  and  condemned  your 
presentation  of  the  English  verb  unmercifully.  It  occurs 
to  me,  since  you  are  a  publisher,  that  the  least  thing  you 
could  do  would  be  to  send  me  a  copy  of  that  grammar  to 
correct  my  estimate.  But  1  fear  1  am  talking  too  long  to 
one  of  the  enemy.  I  begin  to  hear  in  fancy  the  voice  of 
Meiklejohn  upraised  in  the  Savile  Club:  *'no  quarter  to 
publishers!"  So  1  will  ask  you  to  present  my  compli- 
ments to  Mrs.  Meiklejohn  upon  her  son,  and  to  accept  for 
yourself  the  warmest  reminiscences  of  auld  lang  syne. — 
Yours  sincerely,  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

'  Whitrett  or  Whitrack  is  Scots  for  a  weasel :  why  applied  to  Mr. 
Meiklejohn  I  do  not  know. 


3" 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 

CONTAINING  PORTIONS  OMITTED  FROM  THE  LETTERS  AS 
ORIGINALLY  PUBLISHED  (THISTLE  EDITION,  VOLS. 
XXIII,  XXIV  AND  XVII),  AND  NOW  (191 1)  INSERTED  BY 
SIR  SIDNEY  COLVIN  IN  HIS  REVISION  FOR  A  NEW 
EDITION;  ALSO  NEW  EDITORIAL  MATTER  SERVING 
TO   ELUCIDATE   POINTS   IN    THE  TEXT 

LETTERS   IN   VOL.   XXIII 

Page  20.  The  Macdonald  father  and  son  mentioned  in  the  letter  to 
Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson  were  engineers  attached  to  the  Stevenson  firm 
and  in  charge  of  the  harbour  works. 

Page  22.  Letter  to  Mrs.  Thomas  Stevenson.  The  family  whose 
name  is  abbreviated  to  "  R."  in  this  letter  is  that  of  Sheriff  Russel. 
The  tombstone  of  Miss  Sara  Russel  is  to  be  seen  in  Wick  cemetery. 

The  "  M "  in  second  from  last  line,  page  22,  stands  for  Macdonald. 

The  "Mrs.  S."  mentioned  on  page  23  is  Mrs.  Sutherland.  Steven- 
son lodged  during  his  stay  at  Wick  in  a  private  hotel  on  the  Harbour 
Brae,  kept  by  a  Mr.  Sutherland.  (See  a  paper  on  "  R.  L.  Stevenson 
in  Wick,"  by  Margaret  H.  Roberton,  in  Magazine  of  fVick  Literary 
Society,  Christmas,  1903.) 

Page  53.  Letter  to  Mrs.  Sit  well.  The  paper  on  Roads  herein  men- 
tioned had  been  planned  during  walks  at  Cockfield;  was  offered  to  and 
rejected  by  the  Saturday  Review  and  ultimately  accepted  by  Mr.  Ham- 
erton  for  the  Portfolio  ;  and  was  the  first  regular  or  paid  contribution 
of  Stevenson  to  periodical  literature. 

Page  55.  After  paragraph  ending  "wide,  empty  floor, "  occurs  the 
following  paragraph  : 

You  would  require  to  know,  what  only  I  can  ever  know,  many  grim 
and  many  maudlin  passages  out  of  my  past  life  to  feel  how  great  a 
change  has  been  made  for  me  by  this  past  summer.  Let  me  be  ever  so 
poor  and  thread-paper  a  soul,  I  am  going  to  try  for  the  best. 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

Page  58.  Conclude  the  paragraph  now  ending  "round  the  cape," 
with  the  sentence, 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  the  peace  of  the  day  and  scenery  was  not 
marred  by  any  unpleasantness  between  us  two. 

Page  58.  After  the  paragraph  ending  "write  the  history  fairly," 
read  as  follows  : 

Sunday.  —  It  has  rained  and  blown  chilly  out  of  the  East  all  day. 
This  was  my  first  visit  to  church  since  the  last  Sunday  at  CockfieJd.  1 
was  alone,  and  read  the  minor  prophets  and  thought  of  the  past  all  the 
time  ;  a  sentimental  Calvinist  preached  —  a  very  odd  animal,  as  you 
may  fancy  —  and  to  him  I  did  not  attend  very  closely.  All  afternoon 
I  worked  until  half-past  four,  when  I  went  out,  under  an  umbrella,  and 
cruised  about  the  empty,  wet,  glimmering  streets  until  near  dinner 
time. 

Page  62.  Conclude  the  paragraph  ending  "  Dumfries,  ..."  with 
the  sentence, 

But  the  walk  came  sadly  to  grief  as  a  pleasure  excursion  before  our 
return.  ... 

Page  62.  At  end  of  letter,  after  "  loops  of  the  stream,"  read  as  fol- 
lows : 

By  good  fortune,  too,  it  was  a  dead  calm  between  my  father  and  me. 
Do  you  know,  I  find  these  rows  harder  on  me  than  ever.  I  get  a  funny 
swimming  in  the  head  when  they  come  on  that  I  had  not  before  —  and 
the  like  when  I  think  of  them. 

Page  97,  line  2  from  foot.  Before  "poet  who  writes"  read,  "a 
sort  of." 

Page  104.  "  Henley's  hospital  verses,"  mentioned  in  line  1 1  from 
the  foot,  had  been  printed  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  Cornhill. 

Page  107.  At  close  of  paragraph  ending  "wine  to  me"  read  as 
follows  : 

He  plainly  has  been  little  in  the  country  before.  Imagine  this  :  I 
always  stopped  him  on  the  Bridges  to  let  him  enjoy  the  great  cry  of 
green  that  goes  up  to  Heaven  out  of  the  river  beds,  and  he  asked  (more 

316 


APPENDIX 

than  once)  "  What  noise  is  that  ?  "  —  "  The  water."  —  "  O  !  "  almost 
incredulously  ;  and  then  quite  a  long  while  after  :  *'  Do  you  know  the 
noise  of  the  water  astonished  me  very  much  ?  "  I  was  much  struck 
by  his  putting  the  question  twice  ;  I  have  lost  the  sense  of  wonder  of 
course  ;  but  there  must  be  something  to  wonder  at,  for  Henley  has  eyes 
and  ears  and  an  immortal  soul  of  his  own. 

Page  133.  The  letter  to  Mrs.  Sitwell  began  with  the  following  sen- 
tences : 

Well,  here  I  am  at  last ;  it  is  a  Sunday,  blowing  hard,  with  a  grey 
sky  with  the  leaves  flying;  and  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  ought  to  have 
no  doubt ;  since  it 's  so  long  since  last  I  wrote;  but  there  are  times  when 
people's  lives  stand  still.  If  you  were  to  ask  a  squirrel  in  a  mechanical 
cage  for  his  autobiography,  it  would  not  be  very  gay.  Every  spin  may 
be  amusing  in  itself,  but  is  mighty  like  the  last ;  you  see  I  compare 
myself  to  a  light-hearted  animal ;  and  indeed  I  have  been  in  a  very 
good  humour.  For  the  weather  has  been  passable  ;  I  have  taken  a  deal 
of  exercise,  and  done  some  work.     But,  etc. 

The  "  Basin  "  mentioned  in  line  6  of  this  letter  was  Thomas  Basin  or 
Bazin,  the  historian  of  Charles  VIII  and  Louis  XI. 

Pages  137,  138.  Neither  '*  The  Stepfather's  Story"  nor  the  "St. 
Michael's  Mounts  "  essay,  mentioned  in  this  letter  to  Mrs.  Sitwell,  ever, 
to  the  editor's  knowledge,  came  into  being. 

Page  156,  line  3.  "  Meredith's  story  "  is  probably  the  Tragic  Come' 
dians. 

Page  157,  line  2  of  letter  to  Sidney  Colvin.  "  Rembrandt "  refers  to 
an  article  in  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

Page  158,  line  2.     After  "  staying  with  Morley,"  read  : 
has  been  cracking  me  up,  he  writes,  to  that  literary  Robespierre;  and 
he  (the  L.  R.)  is  about,  it  is  believed,  etc. 

Page  167.  After  paragraph  ending  **  Scene  closes,"  occurs  the  fol- 
lowing concluding  paragraph  : 

I  am  not  beaten  yet,  though  disappointed.  If  I  am,  it 's  for  good  this 
time ;  you  know  what  * '  for  good  "  means  in  my  vocabulary —  something 
inside  of  12  months  perhaps  ;  but  who  knows  ?    At  least,  if  I  fail  in  my 

317 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

great  purpose,  I  shall  see  some  wild  life  in  the  West  and  visit  both- 
Rorida  and  Labrador  ere  I  return.  But  I  don't  yet  know  if  I  have  the 
courage  to  stick  to  life  without  it.  Man,  1  was  sick,  sick,  sick  of  this 
last  year. 

Page  1 76.  The  story  spoken  of  in  the  letter  to  W.  E.  Henley  and 
the  following  letters  as  A  Vendetta  in  the  West  was  three  parts  written 
and  then  given  up  and  destroyed.  The  P.  M.  G.  in  line  6  of  letter  ta 
Henley  stands  for  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

Page  182,  line  1 1.  The  copy  of  the  Monterey  paper  here  mentioned 
never  came  to  hand,  nor  have  the  contributions  of  R.  L.  S.  to  that  jour- 
nal ever  been  traced. 

Page  187,  line  13  from  foot.    The  Spectator  referred  to  is  Addison's. 

Page  194.  The  essays  mentioned  in  this  letter  to  W.  E.  Henley  or^ 
Benjamin  Franklin  and  William  Penn  were  projects  long  cherished  but 
in  the  end  abandoned  :  The  Forest  State  came  to  maturity  three  years^ 
later  as  Prince  Otto, 

Page  196,  line  5.     "  Madame  Z."  is  Madame  Zassetsky. 

Page  220,  line  10.  The  words  "a  poetical  young  lady"  refer  to- 
Miss  Anne  Killigrew. 

Page  238.  Of  the  set  of  tales  mentioned  in  the  letter  to  Sidney  Colvin 
"  Thrawn  Janet  "  and  "  The  Body  Snatchers  "  were  the  only  two  com- 
pleted under  their  original  titles.  ' '  The  Wreck  of  the  Susanna  "  con- 
tained, the  editor  believes,  the  germs  of  "  The  Merry  Men." 

Page  245,  line  4.  Mr.  Hamerton  had  been  an  unsuccessful  candidate 
for  the  Professorship  of  Fine  Art  at  Edinburgh  University. 

Page  252.  Dr.  Japp  was  known  in  literature  at  this  time  and  for 
some  time  afterwards  under  his  pseudonym  of  "  H.  A.  Page."  Later, 
under  his  own  name,  he  was  the  biographer  of  Stevenson. 

Page  277.  Letter  to  Dr.  Japp,  line  5.  The  words  "  the  enclosed" 
refer  to  a  packet  of  the  Davos  Press  cuts. 

Page  309,  line  12.  "  Bimini "  is  the  name  of  the  Delectable  Land  in. 
one  of  Heine's  Lieder. 

318 


APPENDIX 

Page  389.  Th6  letter  to  Professor  Lewis  Campbell  was  in  reply  to 
a  gift  of  books,  including  the  correspondent's  well-known  translation 
of  Sophocles. 

Page  399.  The  controversy  mentioned  in  this  letter  to  Miss  Ferrier 
had  been  one  in  which  Mr.  Samuel  Smiles  and  others  had  taken  part, 
concerning  the  rival  claims  of  Robert  Stevenson,  the  grandfather  of 
R.  L.  S.,  and  John  Rennie  to  have  been  the  chief  engineers  of  the  Bell 
Rock  Lighthouse  (see  A  Family  of  Engineers^  chap.  iii). 

In  line  5,  after  the  words  ''  a  very  one-sided  affair,"  read: 
The  man  I  attacked  cried  ''Boo-hoo!"  and  referred  me  to  his  big 
brother.     And  the  big  brother  refused  to  move.     So  I  slept,  etc. 

Page  409.  The  references  in  the  letter  to  Sidney  Colvin  were  caused 
by  the  fact  that  Stevenson  had  begun  with  great  eagerness  to  prepare 
material  for  a  volume  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington  for  the  series  of  Eng- 
lish Worthies  published  by  Messrs.  Longman  and  edited  by  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang;  but  beyond  preparation  the  scheme  never  went. 

Page  412,  last  line  of  letter  which  ends  there.  After  "  help!  help! " 
read: 

I  am  going  to  try  Happy-and-Glorious-long-to-reign-over-us.  H.M. 
must  remember  things  :  and  it  is  my  belief,  if  my  letter  could  be  dis- 
creetly introduced,  she  would  like  to  tell  them.  So  I  jest,  when  I  don't 
address  my  mind  to  it :  when  I  do,  shall  I  be  smit  louting  to  my  knee, 
as  before  the  G.  O.  M.  ?    Probl&me  !— Yours  ever.  R.  L.  S. 


3*9 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 


LETTERS   IN   VOLUME  XXIV 

Page  19.  At  the  time  of  the  writing  of  the  letter  to  Thomas  Steven- 
son, January,  1 886,  Kidnapped  had  just  been  taken  up  again,  Stevenson 
explains  the  course  of  the  story  to  his  father,  who  had  taken  the  deepest 
interest  in  it  since  they  visited  together  the  scene  of  the  Appin  murder. 

Page  27.  This  letter  to  Mrs.  Fleeming  Jenkin  is  the  first  showing 
Stevenson's  new  interest  in  the  technicalities  of  music. 

Page  55,  line  3.   At  beginning  of  paragraph,  before  "  I  am  splendid," 

read: 

Fanny  is  pretty  peepy; 

Page  70,  line  2  from  foot.  After  the  first  sentence  of  letter  to  Sidney 
Colvin,  read: 

Inimitable  is  the  only  word  that  I  can  apply  to  our  fellow-voyagers, 
whom  a  categorist,  possibly  premature,  has  been  already  led  to  divide 
into  two  classes  —  the  better  sort  consisting  of  the  baser  kind  of  Bag- 
man, and  the  worser  of  undisguised  Beasts  of  the  Field.  The  berths, 
etc. 

Page  75,  line  3.     After  "  my  sculptor,"  read: 
I  withdraw  calling  him  handsome  ;  he  is  not  quite  that,  his  eyes  are 
too  near  together ;  he  is  only  remarkable  looking,  and  like  an  Italian 
cinque-cento  medallion ;  I  have  begged,  etc. 

Page  76,  line  3.     Substitute  for  second  word,  "  they,"  a  dash. 

Page  86.  The  letter  to  E.  L.  Burlingame  is  the  first  of  many,  in- 
creasing in  friendliness  as  the  correspondence  goes  on,  to  the  editor  of 
Scrihner's  Magazine. 

Page  109.  After  the  signature  to  letter  ending  at  top  of  page,  by  way 
of  postscript  read : 

I  part  Charles  Reade ;  i  part  Henry  James  or  some  kindred  author  badly 
assimilated;  J  part  Disraeli  (perhaps  unconscious) ;  \\  parts  struggling, 
over-laid  original  talent;  1  part  blooming,  gaseous  folly.  That  is  the 
equation  as  it  stands.  What  it  may  be,  I  don't  know,  nor  any  other 
man.     Vixere  fortes  —  O,  let  him  remember  that  —  let  him  beware  of 

320 


APPENDIX 

his  damned  century;  his  gifts  of  insane  chivalry  and  animated  narration 
are  just  those  that  might  be  slain  and  thrown  out  like  an  untimely  birth 
by  the  Daemon  of  the  epoch.  And  if  he  only  knew  how  1  have  adored 
the  chivalry  !  Bashville!  —  O  Bashville  !  j'en  chortle  (which  is  fairly 
polyglot).  R.  L.  S. 

Page  1 15,  line  6  of  letter  to  Henry  James.  For  "  I  will  try  to  write," 
read: 

I  will  try  to  write  ;  and  yet  (do  you  understand  me  ?)  there  is  some- 
thing in  that  potent,  genialisch  affection  that  puts  one  on  the  strain 
even  to  address  him  in  a  letter.  He  is  not  an  easy  man  to  be  yourself 
with;  there  is  so  much  of  him,  and  the  veracity  and  the  high  athletic 
intellectual  humbug  are  so  intermixed. »     I  read,  etc. 

Line  12  of  same  letter.     After  "  bildend  sketch,"  read: 
(I  wonder  whence  comes  this  flood  of  German  —  I  haven't  opened  a 
German  book  since  I  teethed.)     My  novel,  etc. 

Page  137.  The  signature  used  at  foot  of  first  letter  and  occasionally 
elsewhere,  "  The  Old  Man  Virulent,"  alludes  to  the  fits  of  uncontrolla- 
ble anger  to  which  he  was  often  in  youth,  but  by  this  time  hardly  ever, 
subject :  fits  occasioned  sometimes  by  instances  of  official  stolidity  or 
impertinence  or  what  he  took  for  such,  more  often  by  acts  savouring  of 
cruelty,  meanness,  or  injustice. 

Page  223.  The  idea  discussed  in  the  letter  to  E.  L.  Burlingame  of  a 
further  series  of  essays  to  be  contributed  to  Scribner's  Magazine  was 
never  carried  out. 

Page  2^4,  line  2  of  letter  to  Henry  James.  "  The  BHe  Humaine  " 
refers  to  Emile  Zola's  work  of  that  name. 

Page  240.  After  first  paragraph  of  letter  to  Mrs.  Charles  Fairchild, 
ending  "whatever  it  is  like,"  read  as  follows  : 

...  It  is  always  harshness  that  one  regrets.  ...  I  regret  also  my 
letter  to  Dr.  Hyde.  Yes,  I  do;  I  think  it  was  barbarously  harsh;  if  I 
did  it  now,  I  would  defend  Damien  no  less  well,  and  give  less  pain  to 
those  who  are  alive.     These  promptings  of  good-humour  are  not  all 

*  Alluding  to  a  kind  of  lofty  posturing  way  of  George  Meredith's  in  mind  and 
speech,  quite  different  from  any  real  insincerity. 

321 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

sound;  the  three  times  three,  cheer  boys,  cheei,  and  general  amiability 
business  rests  on  a  sneaking  love  of  popularity,  the  most  insidious 
enemy  of  virtue.  On  the  whole,  it  was  virtuous  to  defend  Damien;  but 
it  was  harsh  to  strike  so  hard  at  Dr.  Hyde.  When  I  wrote  the  letter,  I 
believed  he  would  bring  an  action,  in  which  case  I  knew  I  could  be 
beggared.  And  as  yet  there  has  come  no  action  ;  the  injured  Doctor 
has  contented  himself  up  to  now  with  the  (truly  innocuous)  vengeance 
of  calling  me  a  "  Bohemian  Crank,"  and  I  have  deeply  wounded  one 
of  his  colleagues  whom  I  esteemed  and  liked. 
Well,  such  is  life.     You  are  quite  right;  etc. 

Page  249.  The  opening  sentences  of  the  letter  to  E.  L.  Burlingame 
refer  to  The  IVrecker,  and  particularly  to  a  suggestion  of  Mr.  Colvin's 
concerning  the  relation  of  the  main  narrative  to  the  prologue. 

Page  258.  At  end  of  letter,  after  signature  "A.  Stewart,"  etc.,  read: 
To  Mr.  M'llvaine, 

Gentleman  Private  in  afoot  regiment, 
under  cover  to  Mr.  Coupling. 

He  has  read  me  some  of  your  Barrack  Room  Ballants,  which  are  not  of 
so  noble  a  strain  as  some  of  mine  in  the  Gaelic,  but  1  could  set  some  of 
them  to  the  pipes  if  this  rencounter  goes  as  it 's  to  be  desired.  Let 's 
first,  as  I  understand  you  to  move,  do  each  other  this  rational  courtesy; 
and  if  either  will  survive,  we  may  grow  better  acquaint.  For  your  tastes 
for  what 's  martial  and  for  poetry  agree  with  mine.  A.  S. 

Page  261 .  Letter  to  Charles  Baxter.  Stevenson  had  been  indignant 
at  the  neglect  of  an  old  friend  at  Edinburgh,  who  had  received  kindness 
from  his  mother,  to  call  on  her  after  her  return  from  her  wanderings  in 
the  Pacific. 

Page  271.  The  "  S."  in  the  letter  to  Miss  Rawlinson  stands  for  Mr. 
Alfred  Spender,  the  name  of  Miss  Rawlinson 's  fianc6. 

Page  277.  This  letter  to  W.  Craibe  Angus  refers  to  the  Bums  Exhi- 
bition and  to  Mr.  Angus's  request  for  an  autograph  in  a  special  copy  of 
The  Jolly  Beggars. 

Page  288.     The  letter  "  To  Ned  Orr  "  should  be  "  To  Fred  Orr." 

Page  299,  last  line.    ^^ Aladdin  "  refers  to  the  story  by  Howard  Pyle. 
322 


APPENDIX 

Page  307,  line  12.  The  dash  after  "  How  poorly"  stands  for  "  Kip- 
ling." 

Page  321,  line  4  from  foot.  The  allusion  '*  a  Pure  Woman"  is  to 
TVss,  a  book  Stevenson  did  not  like. 

Page  324,  line  20.     For  "  Buckland  "  read  "  Burn," 

Page  357,  line  4  from  foot.    After  ''first  part  of  your  plans, ''^  read: 
A  fortnight,  even  of  Vailima  diet,  could  kill  nobody. 

Page  380,  line  16.  For  "  refade  "  read  "  Epode."  In  line  2  from 
foot,  for  "  characterishing  buik-thank "  read  "characteristic  pick- 
thank." 

Page  402,  line  14.  For  **  JVestminster  on  St.  James,"  read  "  IVest' 
minster  or  St.  James' s^ 

Page  42 1 ,  line  6.     For  "Adler  "  read  "  Falke," 

Page  431,  line  13.     "  matter  of  the  book"  refers  to  The  Wrecker, 


zn 


LETTERS   IN   VOLUME  XVII 
[VAILIMA   LETTERS] 

Page  27,  line  15.     "  Dr.  D."  is  Dr.  Davis. 

Page  40.  In  this  letter  the  Swedish  Chief  Justice  of  Samoa,  Mr. 
Conrad  Cedercrantz,  first  makes  his  appearance.  The  "  G."  mentioned 
in  line  4  from  foot  is  Mr.  Gurr. 

Page  60.  This  letter  announces  (1)  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Thomas 
Stevenson  from  Sydney,  to  take  up  her  abode  in  her  son's  island  home 
now  that  the  conditions  of  life  there  had  been  made  fairly  comfortable ; 
and  (2)  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  Mr.  Colvin  expressing  the  disappoint- 
ment felt  by  Stevenson's  friends  at  home  at  the  impersonal  and  even 
tedious  character  of  some  portions  of  the  South  Sea  Letters  that  had 
reached  them.  As  a  corrective  of  this  opinion,  it  may  perhaps  be  men- 
tioned here  that  there  is  a  certain  many-voyaged  master-mariner  as  well 
as  master-writer  —  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Joseph  Conrad  —  who 
does  not  at  all  share  it,  and  prefers  In  the  South  Seas  to  Treasure  Island. 

Page  65,  line  2  from  end.  The  "  pictures  "  refer  to  portraits  of  Mr. 
Colvin  for  which  Stevenson  had  asked. 

Page  66 J  line 8.  The  "artist"  was  Miss  Fanny  Macpherson,  now 
Lady  Holroyd. 

Page  68,  line  5  from  foot.     "  Mrs.  S."  was  Mrs.  Sitwell. 

Page  84.  For  "  G."  in  this  letter  read  Gurr,  for  "  D."  read  Dunnet, 
and  for  "  M."  read  Moors. 

Page  91,  line  19.     For  "  G."  read  Gurr. 

Page  1 16.  The  South  Sea  novel,  Sophia  Scarlet,  mentioned  in  this 
letter,  never  got  beyond  the  rough  draft  of  an  opening  chapter  or  two. 

Page  121,  lines  15-16.     After  "  with  neatness  and  despatch,"  read: 
As  we  got  down  to  town,  we  met  the  mother  and  daughter  of  my 

friend ,  bathed  in  tears;  they  had  left  the  house  over  a  row,  which 

I  have  not  time  or  spirits  to  describe.  This  matter  dashed  me  a  good 
deal,  and  the  first  decent-looking  day  1  mounted  and  set  off  to  see  if  1 
could  not  patch  things  up.     Half-way  down  it  came  on  to  rain  tropic 

324 


APPENDIX 

style,  and  I  came  back  from  my  second  outing  drenched  like  a  drowned 
man  —  I  was  literally  blinded  as  I  came  back  among  these  sheets  of 
water;  and  the  consequence  was  I  was  laid  down  with  diarrhoea  and 
threatenings  of  Samoa  colic  for  the  inside  of  another  week.     Meanwhile 

up  came  Laulii,i  in  whose  house  Mrs.  and  Miss  have  taken 

refuge.     One  of  Mrs. : — 's  grievances  is  that  her  son  has  married 

one  of  these  "pork-eaters  and  cannibals."  (As  a  matter  of  fact  there 
is  no  memory  of  cannibalism  in  Samoa.)  And  a  strange  thing  it  was  to 
hear  the  '  *  cannibal "  Laulii  describe  her  sorrows.  She  is  singularly  pretty 
and  sweet,  her  training  reflects  wonderful  credit  on  her  husband  ;  and 
when  she  began  to  describe  to  us  —  to  act  to  us,  in  the  tone  of  an 
actress  walking  through  a  rehearsal  —  the  whole  bearing  of  her  angry 
guests  ;  indicating  the  really  tragic  notes  when  they  came  in,  so  that 
Fanny  and  I  were  ashamed  to  laugh,  and  touching  off  the  merely  ludi- 
crous with  infinite  tact  and  sly  humour  ;  showing,  in  fact,  in  her  whole 
picture  of  a  couple  of  irate  barbarian  women,  the  whole  play  and  sym- 
pathy of  what  we  call  the  civilised  mind  ;  the  contrast  was  seizing.  1 
speak  with  feeling.  To-day  again,  being  the  first  day  humanly  possible 
for  me,  I  went  down  to  Apia  with  Fanny,  and  between  two  and  three 
hours  did  I  argue  with  that  old  woman  —  not  immovable,  would  she 
had  been  !  but  with  a  mechanical  mind  like  a  piece  of  a  musical  snuff- 
box, that  returned  always  to  the  same  starting-point ;  not  altogether 
base,  for  she  was  long-suffering  with  me  and  professed  even  gratitude, 
and  was  just  (in  a  sense)  to  her  son,  and  showed  here  and  there 
moments  of  genuine  and  not  undignified  emotion ;  but  O !  on  the  other 
side,  what  lapses  —  what  a  mechanical  movement  of  the  brain,  what 
occasional  trap-door  devils  of  meanness,  what  a  wooden  front  of  pride! 
I  came  out  damped  and  saddened  and  (to  say  truth)  a  trifle  sick. 
My  wife  had  better  luck  with  the  daughter;  but  O,  it  was  a  weary 
business! 

To  add  to  my  grief — but  that 's  politics.  Before  I  sleep  to-night  1 
have  a  confession  to  make.     When  I,  etc. 

Page  173.  After  paragraph  beginning  "  We  had  a  bowl  of  Punch," 
read: 

By  the  time  you  receive  this,  my  Samoan  book  will  I  suppose  be  out 
and  the  worst  known.     If  I  am  burned  in  effigy  for  it  no  more  need  be 

1  The  native  wife  of  a  carpenter  in  Apia. 
325 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

said;  if  on  the  other  hand  I  get  off  cheap  with  the  authorities,  this  is  to 
say  that,  supposing  a  vacancy  to  occur,  I  would  condescend  to  accept 
the  office  of  H.B.M.'s  consul  with  parts,  pendicles  and  appurtenances. 
There  is  a  very  little  work  to  do  except  some  little  entertaining,  to  which 
I  am  bound  to  say  my  family  and  in  particular  the  amanuensis  who  now 
guides  the  pen  look  forward  with  delight;  I  with  manly  resignation. 
The  real  reasons  for  the  step  would  be  three :  i  st,  possibility  of  being 
able  to  do  some  good,  or  at  least  certainty  of  not  being  obliged  to  stand 
always  looking  on  helplessly  at  what  is  bad:  2nd^  larks  for  the  family: 
3rd,  and  perhaps  not  altogether  least,  a  house  in  town  and  a  boat  and  a 
boat's  crew.^ 

But  I  find  I  have  left  out  another  reason :  4th,  growing  desire  on  the 
part  of  the  old  man  virulent  for  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  salary  — 
years  seem  to  invest  that  idea  with  new  beauty. 

I  sometimes  sit  and  yearn,  etc. 

Page  1 74.  This  letter  consists  of  scraps  merely,  taken  from  a  letter 
almost  entirely  occupied  with  private  family  matters. 

Page  184,  line  16.     After  "  the  Jersey  party,"  read: 
Leigh  is  very  amusing  in  his  way.     Lady  Margaret  is  a  charming  girl. 
And  Lady  Jersey  is  in  all  ways  admirable,  so  unfussy,  so  plucky,  so  very 
kind  and  gracious.     My  boy  Henry,  etc. 

Page  187,  line  15.  After  "penitent,  I  think,"  read: 
As  I  sat  and  looked  at  him,  I  knew  from  my  inside  the  biggest  truth  in 
life :  there  is  only  one  thing  that  we  cannot  forgive,  and  that  is  ugliness 
—  our  ugliness.  There  is  no  ugliness,  no  beauty  only  that  which  makes 
me  {ipse)  sicken  or  rejoice.  And  poor  C.  makes  me  sicken.  Yet, 
according  to  canons,  he  is  not  amiss.     Home,  by  buggy,  etc. 

Page  196.  This  letter  contains  the  first  announcement  of  the  scheme 
of  IVeir  of  Hermiston. 

Page  204,  line  5.     After  "jolly  well  right  ..."  read: 
This  is  a  strange  life  I  live,  always  on  the  brink  of  deportation,  men's 
lives  in  the  scale  —  and,  well,  you  know  my  character :  if  I  were  to  pre- 

1  This  about  the  consulship  was  only  a  passing  notion  on  the  part  of  R.  L.  S. 
No  vacancy  occurred,  and  in  his  correspondence  he  does  not  recur  to  the  subject. 

326 


APPENDIX 

tend  to  you  that  I  was  not  amused,  you  would  justly  scorn  me.  The  new 
house,  etc. 

Page  221,  h'ne  1 6.  After  ' '  with  the  tailie, "  read : 
One  thing  is  sure,  there  has  been  no  such  drawing  of  Scots  character 
since  Scott;  and  even  he  never  drew  a  full  length  like  Davie,  with  his 
shrewdness  and  simplicity,  and  stockishness  and  charm.  Yet,  you  '11 
see,  the  public  won't  want  it;  they  want  more  Alan  !  Well,  they 
can't  get  it.  And  readers  of  Tess  can  have  no  use  for  my  David,  and 
his  innocent  but  real  love  affairs. 

I  found  my  fame,  etc. 

Page  224,  line  16.     After  "  lottes  de  magrandmhe^^  read: 
qui  etaient  a  revers. 

Page  232,  line  3.     After  "  Revelations,"  read: 

Grigsby!  what  a  lark!    And  how,  etc. 

Page  240.     At  close  of  paragraph  ending  "  from  Le  Temps ^''^  read: 
Talking  of  which,  ain't  it  manners  in  France  to  acknowledge  a  dedica- 
tion ?    I  have  never  heard  a  word  from  Le  Sieur  Bourget. 

Page  246.  After  paragraph  ending  "lit  a  candle  at!  "  read: 
Do  you  appreciate  the  height  and  depth  of  my  temptation  ?  that  I  have 
about  nine  miles  to  ride,  and  I  can  become  a  general  officer  ?  and  to- 
night I  might  seize  Mulinuu  and  have  the  C.  J.  under  arrest  ?  And  yet 
I  stay  here!  It  seems  incredible,  so  huge  is  the  empire  of  prudence  and 
]the  second  thought. 

Page  273.    This  letter  recounts  a  scene  of  gratitude  for  bounty  shown 
by  Stevenson  to  the  prisoners  in  Apia  gaol. 

Page  300.     At  close  of  paragraph  ending  "  further  along  the  coast," 
lead: 

One  delicious  circumstance  must  not  be  forgotten.  Our  blessed  Presi- 
dent of  the  Council  —  a  kind  of  hoary-headed  urchin,  with  the  dim, 
timid  eyes  of  extreme  childhood  and  a  kind  of  beautiful  simplicity  that 
endears  him  to  me  beyond  words  —  has  taken  the  head  of  the  army  — 
honour  to  him  for  it,  for  his  place  is  really  there  —  and  gone  up  the 

2>2? 


LETTERS  OF  R.  L.  STEVENSON 

coast  in  the  congenial  company  of  his  housekeeper,  a  woman  coming  on 
for  sixty  with  whom  he  takes  his  walks  abroad  in  the  morning  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  whom  he  reads  to  at  night  (in  a  kind  of  Popular  History  of 
Germany)  in  the  silence  of  the  Presidential  mansion,  and  with  whom 
(and  a  couple  of  camp  stools)  he  walked  out  last  Sunday  to  behold  the 
paper-chase.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  taken  1  am  with  this  exploit  of  the 
President's  and  the  housekeeper's.  It  is  like  Don  Quixote,  but  infinitely 
superior.  If  I  could  only  do  it  without  offence,  what  a  subject  it  would 
make! 

To-morrow  morning  early,  etc. 

Page  309,  line  16  from  foot.     After  "  making  an  income,"  read: 
for  my  family.     That  is  rightly  the  root  and  ground  of  my  ill.     The 
jingling,  tingling,  damned  mint  sauce  is  the  trouble  always;  and  if  I 
could  find  a  place,  etc. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Academy  schoolfellows'  reunion,  104. 
Adelaide  Road,  Vailima,  291. 
Adirondacks,  life  in  the,  231-237. 
"Admiral  Guinea,"  201-202,  203. 
Advocate,  passing  as,  29-30,  106,  no. 
"Aeneid,"  enthusiasm  over  the,  213- 

214. 
Allen,  W.  Grant,  ballade  by,  235. 
"Amateur  Emigrant,  The,"  129,  130, 

132,  138,  146. 
America,  life  and  experiences  in,  125- 

141,  231-238;  deamess  of  things  in, 

235-236. 
American  and  British  sailors,  303. 
Americans,  defects  of,  178. 
Anstruther,  letters  from,  3-6. 
Apia,  letter  from,  261-263. 
"Appeal  to  the  Clergy  of  the  Church 

of  Scotland"  (pamphlet),  83,  84. 
Appleton,  Dr.  (editor  of  the  Academy), 

8s,  86,  108. 
"Arabian  Nights,"  as  a  refuge  from 

mental  suffering,  137. 
Archer,  William,  224. 
Areia  (native  chief  at  Tautira),  246, 

247,  249. 
Arick  (black  boy),  291-297. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  5. 
Art,  remarks  on  possession  of  an,  174; 

realism  in,  a  means  rather  than  an 

end,  174-175;  notes  for  the  student 

of  any,  175,  176. 
Atalanta    Magazine,^  appearance    of 

"David  Balfour"  in,  302. 
"Auntie's  Skirts,"  verses  in  "Child's 

Garden,"  120. 
"Autolycus  at  Court,"  106, 
"Autumn     Effect,     An"     {Portfolio 

article),  95,  102. 
Avignon,  letter  from,  31-34;  descrip- 
tion of,  33. 

Balfour,  Dr.  George,  152. 

Balfour,  Miss  Jane  Whyte,  letter  to, 

120-121. 
Balfour's  "Life  of  Stevenson,"  cited, 

13. 


"Ballade  in  Hot  Weather"  (Henley), 
23s. 

"Ballades,  Rondeaus,  &c."  (edited  by 
Gleeson  White),  234,  235. 

Ballantyne's  "Lighthouse,"  8. 

Ball  on  war-ship  at  Uix)lu,  308. 

Balzac,  137. 

"Barrel  Organ,  The"  (story),  106. 

Bates,  Mr.,  3S. 

Baudelaire,  poems  after  form  of,  116. 

Baxter,  Charles,  186;  letters  to,  13, 
17-19,  39-41,  146-147,  276-277, 
285-286,  301-303,  306-307;  dedi- 
cation of  "David  Balfour"  to,  285, 
302. 

"Beach  of  Falesa,  The,"  276. 

"Bedtime  "  (division  of  "Child's  Gar- 
den"), 193. 

Beethoven,  enthusiasm  for,  102. 

Bentley,  Mr.  (publisher),  157. 

Beranger,  essay  on,  for  "Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica,"  114. 

Berecchino  (nickname  for  Stevenson), 
53,  63. 

Bible,  letter  on  receiving  a,  from  Mrs. 
Gosse,  158-159. 

Birds  at  VaiUma,  288. 

"Black  Arrow,  The,"  184. 

Black  boys,  Samoa,  280-281,  291-297. 

"Black  Canyon,"  158,  159. 

Blackie,  Professor,  lo-ii. 

"Body  Snatchers,  The,"  318. 

Bogue,  the,  201. 

"Bondage  of  Brandon,  The"  (Hem- 
ming), 155. 

Boodle,  Miss  Adelaide,  letters  to, 
265-268,  278-282,  287-291. 

"Book  of  Stories,  A"  (proposed  vol- 
ume), 106-107. 

"Book  of  Verses"  (Henley),  277. 

Bough,  Sam,  6,  8,  9,  10,  11,  12. 

Boulogne,  letter  from,  13-16. 

Bournemouth,  life  at  and  letters  from, 
197-227. 

Braemar,  letter  from,  152-153. 

Brown,  Mrs.  (landlady),  3-4. 

Brown,  R.  Glasgow,  119  n. 


33^ 


INDEX 


Browning,  Robert,  review  of  "Inn 
Album,"  117,  118. 

Bruno,  Father,  245,  247,  257. 

Buckley  (translator  of  Sophocles),  14Q. 

Bunyan,  essay  on  cuts  in  Bagster's 
edition,  155,  156. 

Burns,  essay  on,  90,  128,  136;  allu- 
sion to  "amourettes"  of,  161. 

Burlingame,  E.  L.  (editor  of  Scrib- 
ner's),  320,  321,  322. 

Butler,  verses  on  a,  215. 

Caldecott  (illustrator),  125,  126,  138, 

139. 
Campbell,  Professor  Lewis,  318. 
"  Cannonmills, "  267. 
"Canterbury  Pilgrimage,"  dedication 

to  Stevenson  of  Pennells'  illustrated 

edition,  203,  204. 
"Captain  Singleton,"  reading  of,  194. 
Carr,  J.  Comyns  (editor  of  English  Il- 
lustrated Magazine),  184. 
Carrington,    C.    Howard,    letter    to, 

206. 
Carter,  Mary,  272. 
Casco,  cruise  on  the,  238,  243,  245, 

246,  247. 
Cassell  &  Co.,  Messrs.,  199,  200,  217. 
Cassell's    Family    Paper,    characters 

from  stories  in,  216,  217,  218. 
"Catriona"  ("David  Balfour"),  267, 

285-286,  302. 
Cedercrantz,  Chief  Justice,  283,  284, 

300;  verses  to,  301. 
Century  Magazine,  proposed  series  of 

murder  papers  for,  157. 
"Character  of  Dogs,  The,"  183,  184. 
Chastity,  remarks  on,  161,  162. 
"Chateaubriand"  (Sainte-Beuve),  32. 
Chepmell,  Dr.,  231. 
Children,  fondness  for  and  accounts  of, 

23-24,  46,  53,  56,  60-61,  87,  88. 
Children  in  the  Cellar,  letters  for  the, 

278-282,  287-297. 
"  Child's  Garden  of  Verses, "  120, 192- 

193;  proposed  titles  for,  172;  dedi- 
cation of,  188. 
Chiltern  Hills,  walking  trip  in  the,  95. 
Chopin's  "Marche  funebre,"  8i. 
Christianity,  letter  on  phases  of,  118- 

120. 
Clark,  Sir  Andrew,  31. 
"Cldment  Marot,"  54,  57. 
Clermont-Ferrand,  letter  from,  174- 

176. 


Clinton,  Mr.  (editor  of  Young  Folks), 
154. 

Cloaks,  remarks  on,  51-52,  60,  64. 

Clytie,  bust  of,  British  Museum,  105, 
106. 

"Colonel  Jack,"  reading  of,  194. 

Colvin,  Sidney,  37,  41,  91;  letters 
to,  29-31,  51-52,  54-ss,  67-69,  70- 
72,  81-82,  83-86,  97-98,  105-109, 
113-114,  116-117,  125-126,  138- 
140,  145-146,  149,  150-151,  169- 
170,  171-172,  183-184,  192-194, 
205-206,  213-215,  225-226,  237, 
251-253,  271-276;  with  Stevenson 
at  Monaco  and  Mentone,  43-46; 
letters  from  Mrs.  Stevenson  to,  241- 
250,  257-260;  last  letter  to,  from 
Stevenson,  308-310. 

"Consuelo"  (George  Sand),  37,  76,  77. 

Cornhill  Magazine,  6rst  contribution 
to,  70;  "Pavihon  on  the  Links"  in, 
i3i>  135,  136;  verses  by  Henley  in, 
316. 

Craig,  Dr.,  7. 

"Crime  inconnu"  (M6ry),  132. 

Cunningham,  Alison,  letters  to,  216- 
218. 

Cupboard,  letters  on  gift  of  a,  217- 

2l8. 

Curacoa  (war-ship),  308,  310, 
"  Curate  of  Anstruther's  Bottle,  The," 
54.  106. 

Damien,  Father,  264-265,  322. 
"Damned  Ones  of  the  Indies,  The," 

132. 
Damon,  Rev.  F.,  264,  265. 
Darwin,  C.  R.,  reading  of,  23. 
"David  Balfour"  {see  "Catriona"). 
Davos,  letters  from,  147-149, 154-159. 
"Deacon  Brodie,"  131,  193,  194,  234, 

235. 
"Dead  Man's  Letter,  The,"  126. 
Death,  thoughts  on,  77,  78,  128-129, 

139-140,  140-141,  185. 
De  Mattos,  Mrs.,  letter  to,  206-207. 
Deportation,     Stevenson's    risk    of, 

from  Samoa,  302. 
De  Vere,  Aubrey,  238. 
"Devil   on   Cramond   Sands,   The," 

106,  126. 
Dewar,  Sir  James,  reminiscence  by, 

133  n. 
"Dialogue  on  Character  and  Destiny," 

131,  132. 


332 


INDEX 


"Diana  of  the  Ephesians"  (proposed 

spectacle  play),  67,  68. 
Dickens,   Charles,   Christmas  books, 

88. 
Donat,  Mr.,  resident  at  Tautira,  245- 

246. 
"Don  Juan"  (unfinished  play),  131, 

132. 
Douglas,  Mr.  (publisher),  108,  109, 
Dowden,    Professor,    "Shelley"    by, 

220. 
Dowson,  Mr.,  35,  36. 
Dumas,  A.,  137;   Henley's  essay  on, 

182. 

Earraid,  letter  from,  6-13. 

"Ebb     Tide,     The"     ("The    Pearl 

Fisher"),  267,  276,  302,  303. 
Edinburgh,  letters  from,  17-19,  23- 

31,  68-88,  92-94,  96-109,  113-118, 

120-121,  160-162;    early   morning 

in,  27;  Fast  Day  in,  92. 
Edinburgh,  University  of:  candidacy 

for  chair  of  History  at,  150-152; 

Speculative  Society,  151,  152,  211; 

Lloyd  Osbourne  a  student  at,  211. 
Election  at  Tautira,  249-250. 
Elgin  marbles,  remarks  inspired  by 

photographs  of,  98-99,  100. 
"Emilia  Viviani,"  Shelley's,  221-222. 
Emma  (Samoan  laundress),  272. 
"Encyclopaedia  Britannica, "  essay  on 

Beranger  for,  114. 
EngHsh,  consideration  of  merits  and 

defects  of  the,  177-178. 
"Enjoyment    of    the    World,"    pro- 
posed essays  on,  83-84. 
"Enjoyment   of    Unpleasant    Places, 

On  the"  {Portfolio  paper),  90,  91, 

92. 
"Eothen"  (Kinglake),  259. 
Equator  (schooner),  258,  260. 
Eyes,   Stevenson's  trouble  with  his, 

190,  191. 

Faauma  (Samoan  servant),  272. 

"Fables,"  83,84. 

"Fables  and  Tales,"  125. 

"Fables  in  Song"  (Lytton),  68,  70- 

71. 
Fairchild,  Charles,  letter  to,  233-234. 
Fame,  opinions  of,  232. 
"Family  of  Love,  The,"  106. 
Fastidious  Brisk,  nickname  of,   184, 

IBs. 


Fates,  remarks  on  sculptures  of  the 

100. 
Feast,  a  village,  at  Tautira,  243-246. 
"Feast  of  Famine,  The,"  252. 
Ferrier,   J.   W.,    letter   to,    140-141; 

death  of,   and  letters  concerning, 

179-iri. 
Ferrier,  Miss,  letters  to,  179-181,  200- 

201. 
Fiction  (see  Stories). 
Fielding,  Henry,  Leslie  Stephen  on, 

71. 
Fish,  Vailima,  288. 
Follete,  M.  (proprietor  Hotel  Mira- 

beau),  47-48. 
"Fons  Bandusiae,"  235. 
"Fontainebleau,"  114,  118,  183,  184. 
"  Footnote  to  History,  A, "  306. 
Forester,    J.     W.,     autobiographical 

paper  by,  140. 
Fortnightly  Review,  notice  of  Lytton's 

"Fables  in  Song"  for,  68. 
Fortune,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  6. 
French  language,   Stevenson's  capa- 
bilities in  the,  172. 
French  people,  merits  and  defects  of 

the,  177-178. 

Galitzin,  Prince  Leon,  65,  66,  68. 
Galpin,  Mr.  (member  of  firm  of  Cas- 

sell),  217. 
Garschine,  Mme.,  47,  53,  60,  62,  69, 

87. 
George  Eliot,  137. 
George  Sand,  Uking  for,  36,  37,  76. 
George  the  Pieman,  131,  132. 
"Gibber,"  remarks  on,  17. 
Gilder,  R.  W.,  157,  204. 
Gladstone,  W.  E.,  58;  expressed  dis- 
approval of,  205. 
Gosse,  Edmund,  letters  to,  132-13S, 

154-155,    157-158,    212,    236-237; 

oflFer    from,    for    contribution    to 

Christmas  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  197. 
Gosse,  Mrs.  Edmund,  letter  to,  158- 

159. 
Gottingen,  projected  visit  to,  66,  67- 

68. 
Grant,  Sir  Alexander,  death  of,  200- 

201. 
"Great  North  Road,  The,"  199,  200, 

267;   letter  to  C.  Howard  Carring- 

ton  concerning,  206. 
Greek  Islands,  proposed  sailing  trip 

among,  182,  183. 


333 


INDEX 


Greek  women,  remarks  on  sculptures 

of,  98-99,  IOC. 

Greenock,  evening  at,  7. 
Grove,  Sir  George,  90,  108. 
Gurr,  Mr.,  308,  324, 
Guthrie,  Charles  J.  (Lord  Guthrie), 
151;  letters  to,  151-152,  211. 

Haddon,  Trevor,  letters  to,  160-162, 
174-176,  190-192. 

Hamerton,  P.  G.,  318. 

Hammond,  Basil,  168-169. 

Handwriting,  reading  of  character  by, 
298-299. 

Hargrove,  Mr.,  8. 

Hazlitt,  essay  on,  157. 

Hecky  (dog  belonging  to  Mr.  Cun- 
ningham), 216. 

Henley,  W.  E.,  113, 125, 180, 186, 316; 
letters  to,  127-132,  152-153,  i55- 
157,  170-171,  182-183,  184-189, 
194,  197-199,  201-203;  234-236; 
plays  undertaken  with,  131,  193; 
editor  of  Magazine  of  Art,  155. 

"Hester  Noble"  (unfinished  play), 
131,  132. 

Honolulu,  letters  from,  251-261;  de- 
scription of  house  at,  251-252;  cU- 
mate  of,  252. 

Hugo,  Victor,  article  on,  67,  69,  76; 
letter  from  Leslie  Stephen  concern- 
ing article,  70-7 3- 

Huxley,  T.  H.,  "Collected  Essays" 
of,  225-226. 

Hyde,  Rev.  Dr.,  of  Honolulu,  264- 
265,  267,  321-322. 

Hyeres,  letters  from,  170-192. 

Iceland,  book  on,  suggested  to  Ed- 

mxmd  Gosse,  155. 
Ide,  Miss  Margery,  309. 
Income  tax,  proposed  abolition  of, 

59. 
Ingram,   John  H.    (editor  of  Poe's 

works),  102. 
"Inland  Voyage,  An,"  183,  194. 
"Inn  Album,"  review  of,  117,  118. 
"In  the  Garden"  (division  of  "Child's 

Garden"),  192-193. 
Italian  story,  mention  of  a,  102,  103, 

105;   Stevenson's  criticism  of,  113. 

James,  Henry,  250;    letters  to,  223- 

224,  263-264. 
Japanese  pictures,  remarks  on,  97,  99. 


Japp,  Dr.  Alexander,  318. 

Java  (Samoan  laundress),  272. 

Jenkin,  Mrs.  Fleeming,  7. 

Jenkin,  Professor  Fleeming,  7,  69, 150, 

231,  253. 
"Jerry  Abershaw,"  206. 
"John    Knox    and    Women"     (see 

"Knox,  John"). 
Johnson,  Mr.,  54,  56-57. 
Johnstone,  Marie,  45,  46. 
Joiurnaiism  not  Stevenson's  forte,  127. 

"Kidnapped,"  6,  202,  203;  copy  of, 
presented  to  Alison  Cunningham, 
216;  interest  of  Thomas  Steven- 
son in,  320. 

King,  Mr.,  272. 

Kinglake,  A.  W.,  28,  259. 

"King  Matthias's  Himting  Horn,'* 
98,  100,  105,  106. 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  322,  323. 

"Knox,  John,"  articles,  83,  86,  87,  88, 
90,  92,  94,  98,  99,  103,  105,  107. 

Lang,  Andrew,  60,  62,  237;   opinion 

of  ballades  by,  235. 
"Last  Sinner,  The,"  106. 
"Laughing  Man,  The"  (Hugo),  67. 
Laupepa,  284-285. 
"Lay  Morals,"  35. 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  (Whitman),  29. 
"Lesson  of  the  Master,  The"  (Henry 

James),  263. 
Lichtenberg's  "  Ausfiirliche  Erklarung 

der  Hogarthischen  Kupferstiche, " 

108. 
"Life  and  Death,"  107. 
"Life  of  Stevenson,"  Balfour's,  dted, 

13. 
"Lives  of  the  Admirals"  (Southey), 

28. 
Lippincotts,  offer  to  Stevenson  from, 

182,  183. 
"Little  Land"  (poem),  192. 
L.  J.  R.,  the  (essay  club),  13,  16,  277. 
Llandudno,  description  of,  89. 
"Lodging  for  the  Night,  A,"  125. 
London,  letter  from,  95. 
"Louis  Quatorze  et  la  Revocation  de 

I'Edit  de  Nantes"  (Michelet),  27. 
"Love  in  the  Valley"    (Meredith), 

183. 
Low,  Will,  verses  addressed  to,  212. 
Lytton's  "Fables  in  Song,"  68,  70-71. 


334 


INDEX 


"  Macaire, "  201,  202. 
McClure,  Mr,,  276. 
Macdonald,  George,  235. 
Macdonald,  J.  H.  A.,  59. 
Mackintoshes,  the  (cousins  of  Steven- 
son's), 104. 
Macmillan,  Alexander,  90. 
Macmillan's  Magazine,  contributions 

to,  61,  70,  90. 
"Mademoiselle   Merquem"    (George 

Sand),  36. 
Magazine  of  Art,   contributions   to, 

155,  156. 
Manasqvan,  N.  J.,  stay  at,  237-238. 
Maps  for  "David  Balfour,"  285-286, 

302. 
"Margery  Bonthron,"  107. 
"Markheim,"  222. 
Marryat,  Captain,  224. 
Marseilles,    misadventures    of    Mrs. 

Stevenson  at,  166-169;  letters  from, 

169-170,  192-193. 
"Martin's  Madorma,"  107. 
"Mary  Wollstonecraf t "   (Mrs.  Pen- 

nell),  204. 
"  Master  of  Ballantrae,  The, "  248, 260. 
Mataafa,  274,  284-285. 
"M.  Auguste"  (Mery),  132. 
Maupassant,  Guy  de,  263. 
Mediterranean    Sea,    impressions   of 

the,  50. 
Meiklejohn,  Hugh,  310-311. 
Meiklejohn,  Professor  John,  letters  to, 

135-137,  310-311. 
Melville,  Herman,  259. 
"Memoirs  of  an  Islet,"  6. 
"Memoirs  of  Henry  Shovel,"  267. 
"Memories  and  Portraits,"  179,  223. 
Memory,    testing    the,    by    recalling 

characters  in  stories,  216-217. 
"Men  and  Books,"  35. 
Mentone,  letters  from,  34-43,  45-67; 

beauties  of,  40. 
Meredith,  George,  183,  321. 
^* Merry   Men,   The,"   dedication  to 

Lady  Taylor,  220,  221;    letter  to 

Lady  Taylor  discussing,  222;  men- 
tioned, 318. 
Mery,  Joseph,  novels  by,  131,  132. 
Mirabeau,  Hotel  (Mentone),  45,  46, 

47.    ^ 
"Misadventure  in  France,  A,"  183, 

184. 
"Misadventures  of  John  Nicholson, 

The,"  223. 


Moe,  Princess  (ex-queen  of  Raiatea), 

241,  242,  243. 
Moliere,  reading  of,  198. 
Molokai,  visit  to,  260, 
Monaco,  letter  from,  43-45. 
Monterey,  letters  from,  125-129. 
Monterey  Californian,  318. 
"  More  New  Arabian  Nights, "  199. 
Morison,  Cotter,  225-227. 
Morley,  John,  28,  71. 
Mormons  (Tahitian  sect),  244. 
Morris,  WiUiam,  "Sigiurd"  by,  157. 
Murder  papers  for  Century  Magazine^ 

157. 
Murdoch,  Mr.  (ex-secretary  of  E.  U. 

Conservative  Club),  7. 
Murray,  Grahame,  40. 
Music,  display  of  love  for,  102,  104. 
Myers,  F.  W.  H.,  letter  to,  212-213. 

Nether  Carsewell  records,  305,  306. 
"New  Arabian  Nights,"  171. 
"Notes  on  the  Movements  of  Young 
Children, "  74,  85. 

Oban,  night  at,  7. 

"OlaUa,"  222. 

Old  Man  Virulent,  nickname  of,  253, 
321. 

"Old  Mortality,"  paper  entitled,  179, 
184. 

Omond,  Speculative  Society  debater, 
211. 

"Omoo"  (Melville),  259. 

"Only  Child,  An"  (division  of 
"Child's  Garden"),  192. 

Opiiun,  experience  with,  42. 

Optimism,  Stevenson's,  vs.  Mrs.  Ste- 
venson's pessimism,  224. 

"Ordered  South,"  31,  61-62,  66-67. 

Organ-grinder,  story  of  a,  95. 

Ori  a  Ori,  242,  243,  246,  247,  248,  249- 
250;   letter  from,  255-256. 

Orr,  Fred,  322. 

Osboume,  Lloyd,  154,  155,  156,  211, 
223,  231,  238;  "Black  Canyon," 
158,  159;  a  student  at  Edinburgh 
University,  211;  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  233,  234;  on  the  Pacific 
voyages,  241,  242,  250,  252,  258, 
260;  temporary  return  to  Eng- 
land, 266;  collaboration  on  "The 
Wrecker,"  267;  at  Vailima^  '^72, 
273,  274,  302. 


335 


INDEX 


Osboume,  Mrs.  (Mrs.  R.  L.  Steven- 
son), announcement  of  Stevenson's 
engagement  to,  133. 

Otis,  Captain,  241. 

Pacific  voyages,  239-268. 

Pall  Mall  Gazette,  commission  from, 
for  Christmas  number  story,  197, 
198. 

Pantomime,  an  evemng  at  the,  in 
Edinburgh,  104. 

Papeete,  241,  242,  246,  248. 

Paris,  letters  from,  67-68,   1 18-120. 

"Pavilion  on  the  Links,  The,"  126, 
130,  131,  135. 

Payn,  James,  131. 

*' Pearl  Fisher,  The"  (see  "Ebb  Tide, 
The"). 

"Pendennis"  (Thackeray),  222. 

Pennell,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joseph,  letter 
to,  203-204. 

"Penny  Plain  and  Twopence  Col- 
oured, A,"  190. 

"Penny  Whistles"  {see  "Child's  Gar- 
den of  Verses"). 

"Petits  Poemes  en  Prose,"  116. 

Photographs,  taken  at  Mentone,  64; 
a  lottery  as  regarded  Stevenson,  175. 

"Pilgrim's  Progress,"  essay  on  cuts 
in  Bagster's  edition  of,  155,  156. 

Pitlochiy,  letters  from,  150-152. 

Play- writing,  drawbacks  to,  127; 
"Deacon  Brodie,"  131,  193,  194, 
234,  235;  letters  to  Henley  con- 
cerning "Macaire"  and  "Admiral 
Guinea,"  201-202,  203. 

Poepoe,  Joseph,  252. 

Poland,  projected  visit  to,  91,  95. 

Fort/olio,  the,  30;  contributions  to, 
83,  86,  90,  91,  92,  T02,  315. 

"Prince  Otto"  ("Prince  of  Griine- 
wald"  and  "Forest  State"),  138, 
170-171,  182,  184,  318. 

**Printemps,  Le"  (group  by  Rodin), 
219. 

Printing  press,  Davos,  154,  155,  156. 

"Professor  Rensselaer,"  126. 

"Providence  and  the  Guitar,"  125, 
126,  139. 

"Random  Memories:    the  Coast  of 

Fife,"  3. 
Ratke  (German  cook),  272. 
Rawlinson,  Miss,  322. 


Reade,  Charles,  comparison  of  Hugo 
and,  by  Leslie  Stephen,  73;  as  a 
refuge  from  suffering  in  mind,  137. 

Realism  in  art,  174-175. 

"Reign  of  Law,  The"  (Duke  of 
Argyll),  25. 

"Requiem,"  138,  139. 

Respirator,  lines  on  a,  152-153. 

Revenge,  thoughts  on  the  Christian 
doctrine  of,  119. 

Richardson,  Samuel,  mention  of,  by 
Leslie  Stephen,  71. 

"Rising  Sun,  The,"  267. 

"Ritter  von  dem  heiligen  Geist'* 
(Heine),  38  n. 

"Roads"  (essay),  25,  30,  65,  83,  315; 
remarks  on  comparison  of,  with 
Ruskin,  62. 

Roberton,  Miss  Margaret  H.,  paper 
by,  cited,  315. 

"Robertson's  Sermons,"  63. 

Robinet,  M.,  60,  61. 

"Robin  Run  the  Hedge,"  267. 

"Robinson  Crusoe"  comparisons,  194. 

Roch,  Valentine,  234,  242. 

Rodin,  Auguste,  letters  to,  219,  225. 

Ross,  Alexander,  10. 

Rothschild,  Baron,  humorous  re- 
marks on,  116-117. 

Royat,  visit  to,  174;  letters  from,  176- 
I7Q,  193-194. 

Ruskin,  John,  62. 

Russel,  Sheriff,  and  familj',  315. 

Russian  music,  57-58. 

Ruysdael,  pictvu-e  by,  in  Edinburgh, 
108. 

"St.  Ives,"  310. 

St.  Marcel,  letters  from,  165-169. 

Salvini,  article  on,  184. 

Samoa,  life  in,  269-311;  letter  outlin- 
ing Stevenson's  policy  for,  283-285. 

San  Francisco,  letters  from,  132-141. 

Saranac  Lake,  letters  from,  231-237. 

Saturday  Review,  28,  30;  "Roads'* 
rejected  by,  315. 

Savile  Club,  69,  74,  310,  311. 

"Schooner  Farallone,  The"  {see 
"Ebb  Tide,  The"). 

Schubert's  songs,  81. 

Sciatica,  remarks  on,  189. 

Scott,  Walter,  comparison  of  Hugo 
and,  by  Leslie  Stephen,  72;  as  a 
refuge  from  mental  suffering,  137. 

Scottish  melodies,  57-58. 


336 


INDEX 


Scribner^s  Magazine,  monthly  contri- 
butions to,  235,  236-237,  238. 

Seeley,  Richmond,  83,  84,  85,  89,  105. 

"Service  of  Man"  (Morison),  225- 
227. 

Shairp,  Professor,  136. 

Shakespeare,  136. 

Shannon,  Will  J.,  criticism  of  "Treas- 
ure Island"  by,  154. 

Shelley,  Lady,  204,  220,  238,  262-263. 

Shelley,  Sir  Percy,  220,  238;  death  of, 
262-263. 

"Shelley"  (Dowden),  220. 

"Sigurd"  (Morris),  157. 

"Silverado  Squatters,  The,"  171-172. 

Silver  Ship,  the,  246. 

Simele,  Henry,  272. 

Simoneau,  Mr.,  letters  to,  172-173, 
176-179. 

Simpson,  Sir  Walter,  13, 14, 16,  27, 39, 
81;  letter  to,  231-233. 

Sinclair,  Miss  Amy,  9-10. 

"Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door,"  125. 

Sitwell,  Mrs.,  letters  to,  23-29,  31-39, 
48-50,  60-62,  66-67,  69-70,  72-81, 
82,  86-97,  98-105,  no,  114-116, 
117-118;  letter  from  Mrs.  Steven- 
son to,  253-257. 

Skelt  (illustrator),  190. 

"Solution"  (Henry  James),  263. 

"Song  of  Rahero,  The,"  252. 

"Songs  of  Travel,"  214. 

Songs,  resemblance  between  Scottish 
and  Russian,  57-58. 

"South  Seas,  The,"  257,  258,  268,  324. 

Spectacle  play,  plan  for  a,  with  Col- 
vin,  67,  68. 

Spectator,  article  on  Stevenson  in,  137. 

Speculative  Society,  Edinburgh  Uni- 
versity, 151,  152,  211. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  a  reminder  of,  105. 

Spender,  Alfred,  322. 

"Spirit  of  Spring,"  lost  essay  on,  116. 

Spirits,  belief  in,  in  Samoa,  281-282. 

"Spring  Sorrow"  (poem  by  Henley), 
113- 

"Stepfather's  Story,  The,"  317. 

Stephen,  Leslie,  letter  from,  70-73; 
mentioned,  131,  135,  136,  316. 

Stevenson,  James  S.,  letters  to,  304- 
306. 

Stevenson,  Robert  A.  M.,  16,  23,  24, 
28,  49,  51,  55,  56,  198;  fondness  of, 
for  R.  L.  Stevenson,  35;  attack  of 
diphtheria,  74,  75,  76-77,  79,  80. 


Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  letters  of,  as 
a  yoimg  man  engaged  in  engineer- 
ing duties,  3-19;  Portfolio  essay  on 
"Roads"  first  paid  contribution  to 
periodical  literature,  25,  30,  62,  65, 
83,  315;  candidate  for  admission  to 
London  Inns  of  Court,  29-30;  or- 
dered by  physician  to  Mentone  for 
winter's  rest  (1873),  31;  letters  from 
Mentone,  35-67;  return  to  Edin- 
burgh and  letters  from,  68-110; 
pacing  Advocate,  no;  life  in 
Edinburgh  and  Paris  (1875-1879), 
1 13-1 2 1 ;  letters  from  Monterey  and 
San  Francisco,  1 25-141;  engagement 
to  Mrs.  Osboume,  133;  letters  from 
Scotland  and  from  Davos  (1880- 
1882),  145-162;  letters  describing  ex- 
periences at  St.  Marcel,  Marseilles, 
Hyeres,  and  Royat  (1882-1884), 
165-194;  life  at  Bournemouth  (1884- 
1887),  197-227;  a  winter  at  Saranac 
Lake,  231-237;  stay  at  Manasquan, 
N.  J.  (May,  1888),  237-238;  Pacific 
voyages  and  adventures  (Jirne,  1888- 
November,  1890),  241-268;  pur- 
chase of  Vailima  estate,  Upolu, 
Samoan  Islands,  201-202;  life  and 
activities  at  Vailima  (November, 
i89a-December,  1894),  271-31 1. 

Stevenson,  Mrs.  Robert  Louis,  133; 
poor  health  of,  155,  156,  158,  223, 
224;  letters  by,  166-169,  241-250, 
253-260;  misadventures  of,  en 
route  from  St.  Marcel  to  Marseilles, 
166-169;  trait  of  seeing  the  dark 
side  of  things,  224;  beneficial  ef- 
fects of  tropics,  252,  260;  dislike  of 
the  sea,  253,  254,  255;  as  a  critic  of 
her  husband's  work,  257,  258-259; 
description  of,  at  Vaihma,  300. 

Stevenson,  Thomas,  letters  to,  3,  13, 
56-57,  58-60,  1 18-120;  discussions 
between  R.  L.  Stevenson  and,  24, 
25-26, 92, 315, 316;  estrangement  be- 
tween Stevenson  and,  133-134; story 
concerning,  related  by  Sir  James 
Dewar,  133  n.;  desires  withdrawal 
of  "Amateur  Emigrant,"  146;  old 
age  and  second  childhood  of,  214. 

Stevenson,  Mrs.  Thomas,  letters  to, 
5,  45-48,  53-54,  57-58,  62-66,  264- 
265;  with  her  son  on  the  Pacific 
voyages,  242,  244,  248,  252,  254; 
at  Vailima,  273,  274,  324. 


337 


INDEX 


Stevenson  family,  records  of  the,  304- 

306. 
Stewart,  Dugald,  63. 
Stobo,  stay  at,  160. 
Stories,  as  a  refuge  from  suffering  in 

mind,  136-137;    qualities  of  truth 

and  falseness  in,  222, 
**  Story  of  a  Lie, "  1 25, 1 26;  defence  of, 

127. 
"Strange  Adventures  of  Mr.  Nehe- 

miah  Solny,"  106. 
"Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 

Hyde,  The, "  reply  to  criticisms  on, 

212-213. 
Strathpeffer,  letters  from,  145-147. 
Strong,    Austin,     273,     308;    stories 

about,  287-290,  296-297. 
Strong,  Mrs.  Isobel,  letter  to,  147-148; 

at  Vailima,  273,  274,  308,  309;  acts 

as  amanuensis  for  Stevenson,  298. 
Swanston  Cottage,  151. 
Sydney,  letters  from,  263-268. 
Symonds,  John  Addington,  149;  con- 
tributions of,  to  Magazine  of  Art, 

iSS,    156;     letter   to,    from    Mrs. 

Stevenson,  166-169. 

Tahiti,    Stevenson    party    at,    241- 

250. 
Talolo  (Samoan  cook),  300. 
Tautira,  letter  from,  241-250. 
Taylor,  Lady,  letters  to,  220-223,  238, 

260-263;   death  of,  298. 
Taylor,  Miss  Ida,  263;  letter  to,  298- 

300. 
Taylor,  Miss  Una,  263,  298. 
Temple  Bar,  stories  in,  126. 
"Tess  of  the  d'Urbervilles"  (Hardy), 

323,  327- 
Thomson,  Maggie,  7. 
"Thoreau,"  130,  135,  136. 
"Thrawn  Janet,"  222,  318. 
Three  Fates,  The  (Elgin  Marbles), 

100. 
"To  ,"  suppressed  poem,  later 

printed  in  "Songs  of  Travel,"  214, 

215. 
Travelling,  experiences  in,  96-97. 
"Travelling  Companion,  The,"  183, 

184,  205. 
"Travels  with  a  Donkey,"  120,  121, 

126,  128,  131. 
"Treasure   Island,"   defence  of,   by 

editor  of  Young  Folks,  154;    book 

publication  of,  156;  mentioned,  190. 


"Two  Falconers  of  Caimstane,  The," 

105,  106. 
"Two  St.  Michael's  Mounts"  (pro* 

jected  essay),  317. 
"Typee"  (Melville),  259. 

"Underwoods,"  214,  215,  223. 
Upolu,  island  of,  261. 

VaiUma,  purchase  of  estate,  261-262; 
letters  from,  271-31 1;  household 
and  life  at,  271-275;  description  of, 
for  Miss  Boodle's  pupils,  278-282, 
287-290. 

Vanity  Fair,  review  of  "Inn  Album" 
for,  n7,  118. 

"Vendetta  in  the  West,  A,"  130,  132, 
138,  318. 

Villanelles,  opinion  of,  235. 

Violet,  remarks  on  the,  41-42. 

Virgil  vs.  modern  small  fry,  213-214. 

"Virginibus  Puerisque,"  145. 

War,  preparations  for,  at  Vailima, 
273-275. 

"When  the  Devil  was  Well,"  pro- 
posed title  for  story,  103. 

"Whistles"  {see  "Child's  Garden  of 
Verses"). 

White,  Gleeson,  234,  235. 

Whitman,  Walt,  29;  essay  on,  35,  38- 
39,  48,  49,  82;  reading  of  death- 
cycle  from,  81;  correspondence 
with  Trevor  Haddon  resulting  from 
essay  on,  160. 

Whitmee,  Rev.  S.  J.,  letter  to,  283- 
286. 

Wick,  lodgings  during  stay  at,  315. 

"Wild  Man  of  the  Woods,  The,"  126. 

"Will  o'  the  Mill,"  125,  139. 

Woggs,  148. 

Women,  advice  regarding,  161. 

"Wrecker,  The,"  267,  276-277. 

Yachting  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson, 

81,  82. 
"Yoshida  Torajiro,"  135,  136. 
Young  Folks,  publication  of  "Treasure 

Island"  in,  and  discussion  aroused 

by,  154. 

Zassetsky,  Madame,  47,  50,  54,  56,  57, 

58,  59,  61,  63,  64,  66. 
Zassetsky,  NeUie  ("Nelitchka"),  S3. 

57,  59,  60-61,  69. 


338 


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